Daygo's Fury (15 page)

Simple life, living, expressed.

The heat rose, with his eyes, to the dark night sky. Blinded to the stars, the red moon shone, the visible round iris of the isolated watcher alone in the sky, owning the dark. The fire grew, its heat pushing the bodies back. Short, sharp shouts emitted from a thousand voices bounced across the open air as the flames soared and crackled and gave that deep, burning roar that grew like some devil ready to consume the world, like the voice of destruction.

As though unknown of it himself, Niisa distanced himself from the fire. He continued to move and chant but with each step he edged an inch further away. He could feel it again. It was almost a faint tingling on his flesh. An invisible vibration in the air around him. Though the red moon’s pull was not as it was the first night.

If he could sense it in the air, he could pass the test, he could leave the tribe, he could learn from the priests, he could connect, truly and forever, with Daygo. He felt this need, even though his mind was blank, even though he was lost in the trance of the Ijo. Eventually, as the pressing presence of the fire faded to a distant glowing, he escaped to the edges of the crowd. He turned, moving fluidly, flowing like liquid to the energy in the air. He travelled away from the tribes, away towards the cabin his family had been staying in.

A ferret he had caught the night before was buried outside the hut, its limbs bound tightly to its body, and still alive. He reached the hut and scrawled the earth clear with his hands, still moving to the rhythm of the dance, his hips, his feet, his legs, humming, as his nails grew dirty, as the hole grew. He found his catch. He took him into his hands. His knife was buried beside it.

He took the ferret into the hut and sat with it resting in his hands. His gaze fell steadily on the other corner of their hut. Chiko lay facing him. The noise was thumping from outside. It was close to its peak. Niisa looked at his sister. The bottoms of her eyes seemed to shine in the moonlight. Her chest rose and fell between her arms. She snored lightly. Her legs were pulled up close to her. The hut was dark, but the moonlight shone through the door, a grey light that fell on her sleeping form, that ended across her knees, her arm and chest, as though a sign, as though an invitation, giving vision to the work that he must do. The ferret rolled softly off his fingertips, landing on the dirt floor with a soft pad. Dead. He placed the knife quietly beside it. He still hummed. He broke into a soft chant, his movements still rolled languidly as he stepped forward and stood above her. It did not take long to use the weedgrass that he had wrapped tightly around the ferret’s form to tie her ankles and wrists, and to turn her onto her back. He stuffed her mouth with fur padding. He retrieved his knife. He knelt beside her. Still chanting, he raised the blade high and brought it down just below her sternum. Her screams were muffled, her eyes were wide and white as he sawed through her. Her body grew taut and shook and struggled, but he pinned her with his knees as he sought with fingers and eyes and everything for what he must sense, what he must know. His prayers were answered.

He crawled along the side of the street, at the feet of the homeless. His forehead was wet, the fringe matted against his head. His mind was vacant, as were his eyes. He continued onwards, crawling. The dust and dirt pushed underneath his fingernails as his hands grasped at the ground, as though he might be thrown from it.

He stopped again, and started to cry.
Why was he crying, what was wrong?

“Liam! What are you doing?” He heard a laugh but from a great distance. “Liam?”

He curled up in a ball on the ground and hugged his head. He felt a pressure on him. Something was shaking him. He fought against it, tightening his grip upon himself, curling up tight. He would not be pulled apart, he would stay together. Eventually the rocking stopped, the shouting in his ear ceased and he was left alone.

He was in a cocoon of protection, nothing could enter; there was nothing else but him within it and nothing outside. His tears left his face salty and moist. There was warmth from within. Warmth and safety.

******

Racquel walked side by side with Alison on the way back home from the well. Alison had plump features. She had a round face with fleshy cheeks that always seemed a little flushed and a wide nose. Her fringe lay over her forehead, feathered out just above her eyebrows. The rest of her light brown hair was tied in a ponytail that swung behind her as she walked. She was a couple of inches smaller than Racquel and almost the same age. Both girls were just shy of their fourteenth year.

She lived close to the outer wall of Teruel, three streets in from Baker’s Corner, but she normally walked with Racquel until Sparrow Street before they went their separate ways. The sun had dipped below the buildings of the slums, meaning there was less than an hour until twilight. Racquel quietly withheld a sigh of annoyance as she thought of the boy Liam.
Why hadn’t he shown up?
She had made Alison wait with her for close to half an hour before her constant pestering was too much to bear and they left without him.

It had been another sunny day, though not quite as hot as it had been during the previous week. People seemed a little more relaxed as they walked the streets, probably relieved at the slight break from the oppressive heat.

“I heard Dad talkin’ to one of his friends yesterday,” said Alison. Racquel looked across at her as she talked. She was her best friend, though at times Racquel wondered how. They seemed to have little in common. “They were talkin’ about a guy who didn’t pay the tax. Said his daughters would be sorry. Dad said he was a scumbag for not payin’, when he had daughters like that, not lookin’ after his family.” Alison glanced Racquel’s way for her reaction, but Racquel had none to give, so she continued. “I think he is a scumbag. A man has to pay his way. Thank Lev I don’t have a dad like that.”

Racquel looked away, ignoring the gibe as she was used to doing. Alison’s father was a matis enforcer and friends with her uncle Galo. That was how Alison and Racquel had met and become friends. Alison’s father Damon had brought her to the bakery one day and the two of them had started talking. Damon and Galo had liked the idea of their friendship and had promoted the relationship since.

The truth was Racquel didn’t really have any other friends. She used to be friends with a few girls and boys on her street, but as she grew older Galo had wanted her to help out in the bakery more and more. Anytime he had seen her out playing with other children, he would call her in and set her to a chore. Over the years she had slowly lost track of everyone but Alison. She met with her twice a week. Most other days she got a chance to leave the bakery for an hour or so before dusk. She normally spent the time out beside the well, watching people as they finished up for the day. It was a relief just to get away from the house for a while, even though sometimes she found herself lonely as she watched groups walk by, chatting amiably.

Alison continued talking, regardless of Racquel’s lack of participation in the conversation. She rarely needed encouragement to talk. “Anyway, I guess Dad will be paying him a visit. What has you so glum? Still thinkin’ of your slum rat boyfriend?”

“No! I’m just hoping Galo will be in a good mood when I get back. He had to leave the shop this evenin’ to order a load of firewood for the oven. He normally comes back from Jessup’s in a bad mood. Calls him a cheat!”

Alison looked across at her. “You afraid he’ll hit you again?”

“No, he’s just been very … on edge lately.” Galo hit Racquel all the time, just not normally in the face.

Racquel looked down at the dress she wore. It extended to just past her knees and was embroidered with flowery patterns. Her aunt had spent hours sewing the floral design into it. Galo had yelled at her more than once about the waste of good thread, but she had persisted, meekly forecasting how lovely Racquel would look when it was done.

It was beginning to tighten around the chest as her breasts grew. They had been on the rise for nearly two years and now represented two handfuls. She hadn’t noticed at first but now felt sure that her hips had become more rounded too. She wasn’t sure of what she thought of all the changes to her body over that time. She might have preferred if it was somehow more discreet. Her uncle Galo had started to take a lot more notice of her since her womanhood had begun to show. She sometimes felt his eyes follow her across the room. She had looked back yesterday and saw him glance up from her posterior angrily. He had shouted for her to find something useful to do.

“So you think your boyfriend will show up tomorrow? He prob’ly will when I’m not here. I can’t believe you had me waitin’ half an hour for some slum rat!”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Why? That’s what he is, isn’t he?”

“He’s the same as anyone else.”

“He is not! If my father found out that I was hangin’ out with some rat, he’d slap me silly.”

Like the sons of enforcers are any better,
thought Racquel, but she kept it to herself, as she so often found herself doing. Alison seemed to nod as though she had won the point.

“I went behind the barn with Fin last night!” she said, suddenly excited and eager for Racquel’s opinion. The barn was a warehouse at the end of Alison’s street that all the locals referred to as “the barn”. Racquel looked across at her.

“Just the two of ye?” she asked.

Alison nodded. “Let him finger me as well!”

Racquel gasped a little in surprise, and Alison let a squeal, happy with the reaction.

“How … was it?” Racquel asked shyly. She could feel herself blushing as she said it. She had only kissed one boy before. It was a short affair that Alison had set up. She had been teased for weeks until she finally agreed to kiss a boy that Alison found for her.

The next day, while out at the well, Alison had seen two boys their age walking towards the market. She had run over to them while Racquel waited awkwardly by, not sure whether to look over or pretend indifference. The first boy seemed shy and refused, but then Alison asked the second and he nodded his head vigorously. She had led him over to Racquel. They then walked hand in hand to the wall of a building and kissed right then and there. At first it had only been on the lips, but when he gave an angry look she had opened her mouth to him, their tongues meeting. After a while, his hand reached up to grab at her breast. She had allowed it to stay for a few seconds before pushing him off and running back to Alison.

The boy had returned to his friend excitedly with a triumphant grin and they had parted ways.

“Okay,” Alison said. “He wasn’t very good at it.” She took a step closer to Racquel before she went on. “He took a while to find the hole!” she whispered fiercely and jumped away with a giggle.

Racquel was always in equal parts intrigued and embarrassed by Alison’s stories. She felt as though she was less experienced than all other girls her age. Alison certainly always seemed to know a lot more than her. She was the main source of all of her knowledge about the world of boys.

They came to the edge of Sparrow Street and said their goodbyes. They would see each other again at the same time in two days. Racquel reluctantly turned for home.

It was only a five minute walk from there to the bakery. She enjoyed this time of day, when the baking heat of the sun was no longer beating down on her tanned skin but the air still held a pleasant warmth. The stink also seemed lessened, not so festering as it was during midday heat. The slums were quietening now, offering a less rushed and more pleasant air as people laughed and joked together, packing up after the day’s work. No doubt enjoying these few moments between work and life in the home, where they were suddenly free to joke with their neighbouring workers, no longer trying to sell or get the upper hand. The peaceful time before returning to the household and whatever waited for them there.

Racquel felt it too. Enjoying those last few precious moments before walking up to her home above the bakery. Finally, blissfully alone and able to enjoy the ease in the slums without the lurking tension of Galo or the slightly annoying presence of Alison, even though she felt guilty to admit it.

A slight breeze blew through her hair as she walked. She inhaled, taking in the faint and familiar scent of baked bread, mixed with that of the dubious meat mixture that Dallow made for the meat pies cooked in Galo’s oven. There was also the smell of the people, sweat and dirt, and the wood of the buildings. The sky was stained red behind her and to the left as she neared the door of the bakery. It was closed but not yet locked, Galo often coming up and down the stairs at the end of the evening, organising things for the following day’s work. She pushed the door open, closed it after herself and slid the latch across, locking the door from the inside.

Racquel lived with her aunt and her uncle Galo. Her aunt was her mother’s sister. Her mother had died when she was four from an infection she picked up while working as a nurse in an infirmary. Racquel had fleeting memories of her; the most lasting was a week of crying as she lay wasting in the bed. To this day she could remember the slowly building smell of decay.

After that her aunt took her in, and she had been living above the bakery ever since. Her aunt had proven to be barren and had had no children herself. Racquel was like an only child to her. Galo, however, had always treated her as an unwelcome guest that persisted on staying.

He hated Aunt Cara for the children she hadn’t given him. As the years had gone on, Cara had become more cowed and meek, flinching every time Galo raised his voice, which was often. Her features matched her personality, as in a strange way Galo’s seemed to match his. He was big and brutish, standing over six feet tall, with a doughy round face and a pig’s nose. He was balding and had his brown hair cut short around his head. His chin was joined to his neck by hanging, loose fat that waggled when he moved in haste. He had a round stomach that was strangely smaller than one might expect from his facial features.

Cara, on the other hand, was the same height as Racquel even though she was still growing. She had mousy features; a lightly freckled face with small eyes that showed more wrinkles than it should for a woman not far into her thirties. Her auburn hair was streaked with grey and hung, tied back in a ponytail, to just above her shoulder blades. She looked as though she might once have been pretty but had lost all desire to be so.

Cara often told Racquel that her mother was beautiful, that her looks came from her, while her darker skin was a result of her father.

She walked past the counter and stopped for a moment, her hand resting on the counter top. She spared a glance across at the oven, remembering three days previously when the boy Liam had swooped in like a bird in flight, seeing the prize bread in the oven. And then, like the bird, he had found himself momentarily trapped in the room, unable to open the oven door.

She continued on to the next room where the dough was made. It was a small room and practical of purpose. There were three large pots of flour propped against the far wall, underneath the staircase that led to the living quarters above. Beside these was a stack of wood used for firing in the oven. To her right just inside the door was a flat wooden table where the flour was mixed with water and kneaded until ready for cooking. Sometimes seeds or dried fruit were added to the mix, though these loaves were specially ordered from some of the wealthier clients. Flour lay sprinkled across the top of it. There were various grinding utensils for turning seed into flour that were rarely used, a large roller and knife laid out on the table top.

She walked across to the foot of the stairs where she heard raised voices. She took a few steps upwards before pausing to listen, reluctant to walk into an argument.

“A whole batch ruined! I had to turn Dave away and three other customers to match. Laughing at me, they were! A baker who can’t bake bread! By Lev, when I see that girl!”

A shiver ran through Racquel, a thousand pinprick-like jolts that sent her heart into a frenzied panic.
A whole batch ruined! Why? What did she have to do with it?
She searched through her mind, recalling all of her chores that she was to have completed before leaving that evening. She ticked them off one by one in her head. She couldn’t think of anything!

“Please, Galo, it wasn’t her fault.”

“Wasn’t her fault? Well, whose fault is it so, mine?” Galo stormed. “I ask her to do one thing before swanning off with that little brat!” The oven. Oh Lev
,
he had told her to dampen the fire down in the oven. The last batch of bread was in it and he had to collect the firewood from Jessup. She was to turn it down so the bread wouldn’t burn and the oven wouldn’t waste good wood. She was on her way to do it when Aunt Cara told her to go, that she would cut the air off once she had taken in the clothes from drying.