WRITING
Chapter 1
Silent. Empty. The marketplace was a void of abandoned stalls and dusty streets. Not a body could be seen, save the lone girl in tattered rags, long list in hand, pouch of gold tied to a broken belt.
      She was afraid and uncertain. Her master would not be pleased if she returned empty-handed. She could almost feel the whip across her back. Where were the merchants? Where were the customers? Street-side stalls were never abandoned. As her mistress once said, thieves lurk inside the most virtuous street-trash.
      The thought struck her. No witnesses. Who could stop her taking what she needed? Fear of the whip drove her to approach the nearest stall. She cast her eyes over its products, skimmed down the list, and unhooked a chain of garlic bulbs from the corner-post. She hesitated.
      Could she really steal? What of the merchant who had a family to support, who had nothing but what was laid out for sale? Carefully, she pulled at the string that bound the pouch and drew out a copper coin. She hid it behind the counter in payment, where the shadows of the high street walls darkened the earth.
      She took from other stalls, and slowly worked her way through the list. She could only hope the merchants would find her payment when they returned. She worried about her judge of pricing, worried about thieves, about the empty streets. And her master's wrath. Could she find everything on the list? Had she spent too much? She could already feel the shifting weight of the pouch at her hip.
      Finally, she reached the last stall, tucked into the corner formed by the wall and a stone archway that cut the street in two. On the other side of the arch was the high-class quarter, where streets were cobbled and stalls were built inside houses. There, goods were expensive and of the finest quality; a place Brann knew she would never tread.
      She cast her eyes over the bench and smiled. This stall's meagre offering held the last item on her list. Today, she would not be lashed. Today she would not fail. Today-
      She froze.
      The hairs on her neck trembled, her breathing paused and her muscles tensed. She dropped the orange and turned to look down the street. A man stood there, still and silent. His face was hidden beneath a broad black hat with a purple shimmer that matched his cloak and suit. Signs of wealth.
      She was terrified. She could be hanged for this, hanged like a stable-boy thief. Should she stay and be dragged to the gallows? Should she run and confess her crimes? He might accept the remnants of the pouch as payment for his silence. Or would he want something warmer?
      She shuddered at the memory.
      And still he stood, unmoving, unflinching, unspoken. His cloak rippled in a brief wind and settled again. Still.
      Unsure of what else to do, she picked up the orange and placed it back on the stall. She faced the stranger, and twisted her knuckles nervously. He remained stoic.
      Brann was almost frantic when he finally broke. He turned on his heel and disappeared into a thin alley. Brann bit back panic and stayed her tears. Home she ran, home to her master.
Brann tiptoed through the kitchen, shoes in hand - bare feet made less noise on stone - and the chill seeped into her toes.
      'Where d'you think you've been?' The voice was sharp and sudden, the tone controlled, but Brann could sense anger below the surface.
      Brann turned, fighting to control her face, in vain. Fear spilled out her every pore.
      'Returned empty-handed, I see. Useless child. Well come on then. Hand over the master's gold. I'll go myself.'
      Brann could not speak. She knew the gold was almost gone. She reluctantly removed the pouch from her belt, and the maidservant snatched it from her. Immediately the crone's eyes narrowed, and she glared.
      'Where's the rest of it? What did you spend it on?' Batista took a step closer, pressing her face close to Brann's. Batista's breath was rank, but Brann knew better than to wrinkle her nose and she stifled a gag reflex.
      'You'll get the whip for this. I'll see to it personally.' Batista stalked off in search of their master.
      Brann dropped the shoes and ran to her quarters. She threw herself on the worn-out pallet and cried. Despite the open doorway, the cold walls pressed in around her. But this was Brann's place, her home. The only place she had to call her own.
      Of course, it was not hers. It was her master's, and he could take it from her if he so wished. But he cared none for his slaves, showing interest only when they needed whipping. He knew nothing of her love for her sanctuary - the windowless square room barely big enough to fit her pallet. He would not know to take it from her. But Batista might.
      Brann sobbed and pressed her face into the sack she had for a pillow. How could she have forgotten the cart? And after she had collected everything on the list! She should have thought. She should not have been so afraid. Returning with less gold than when she left, and no purchases to show for it, would result in a worse punishment than the stranger could ever have given her. She tried to guess how many lashings it would be this time. The scars on her back throbbed in memory.
      A shoe hit her in the back.
      'Get up. The Master wants to speak with you.' Batista's face was contorted in a sinister smirk.
      Why was she always so cruel? Why did she delight in making Brann's life a living nightmare?
      ''Urry up, whore. We don't got all day.' Batista disappeared down the hall. To tell the Master that Brann would be late, no doubt. Brann ignored the shoes and ran to catch up, reaching the door to his chamber only seconds after Batista, and interrupted the maidservant's speech. The woman glared at her and sneered, then left the chamber and closed the door.
      The Master sat at his desk, many papers spread about. He set his pen in an inkwell and regarded his slave.
      'Maid tells me you stole gold this morning,' he said succinctly. There was no anger in his tone or in his eyes.
      'No. There was a man-'
      'Would you have me a liar?' Now anger revealed itself. Brann averted her eyes. What right had she to meet eyes with her master? Stupid!
      'No, Master, but-'
      'Silence. Thirty lashes,' he said without emotion and turned back to his notes. Brann did not let her relief show. She had expected much worse.
      'For the theft. Thirty for failing your task and ten for your lies. That is seventy if I am not mistaken.'
      Brann almost choked. Seventy lashes! She would never survive such torture.
      He stared at her as if he expected something. A 'thank-you' perhaps?
      'Go,' he ordered, his annoyance hitting her like a club. Brann slipped through the wooden door as fast as she could and pulled it closed behind her. Batista was waiting with a grin on her face. Brann ran. Ran from Batista's chuckling. Ran from her cruel master's words. Ran back to her room.
      Seventy lashes…
Whip, 'One.' Whip, 'Two.' Whip, 'Three.'
      Leather opened her back, ripped old scars, tore fresh wounds. Years of suffering could never bring resistance to the pain. She clenched her jaw hard on the bit, and struggled not to cry out, though she could not stop the tears.
      Whip, 'Fourteen. Fifteen.'
      The stable-laird was old and brittle, but his arm was swift and his skills with a whip were nothing short of brutal. He was not a cruel man, but he was bitter. Brann had pieced together from odd comments and conversations that he had been a slave his long life. He relied only on himself and was always sure to do every job right. Brann had seen in his eyes that he too was hurt by the whippings.
      Whip, 'And thirty.'
      Brann barely acknowledged that it was over - or the first instalment at least. The pain was intense. It ripped through her body like thunder after lightning. She could not speak. She could not move. Her eyes could not focus and she heard as if through water.
      She scarcely noted the stable-laird removing the bit and releasing her bonds. He lifted her and helped her stumble into her quarters.
      She woke in darkness, disoriented and unaware of ever having fallen asleep. Her back had been treated - by the stable-laird, she guessed - but it still stung violently. She carefully stood, wary of every movement, and painfully pulled on her shirt, which had been left beside her pallet.
      She entered the hallway, a single torch strung on the wall the only source of light. It must be late. Surely they would be expecting her.
      She walked as fast as her wounds would allow through the thin stone hall, the smell of food wafting from the kitchen. Dinner preparations were well underway.
      'Well it's about time,' snapped Batista as Brann entered. ''Ere, take this.' She jabbed a plate of bread rolls into Brann's gut, causing her to wince.
      She knew the task, and headed for a wooden door at the opposite corner of the kitchen.
      'Don't forget the butter.'
      Brann stopped, balancing the plate on one hand, and picked up the pot of yellow paste. With her back in such a state, the simple balancing act became a complex task. Brann was cautious in her entry to the dining room, and had to put the plate down again to open the door.
      The dining room was the largest on the property, though still too small to seat more than eight. The walls were bare, hung only with iron-cast lanterns. The heavy wooden table was decorated with a pot of half-dead flowers and the remnants of the night's meal.
      He sat along the length of the thick wood, opposite his wife, and Brann had to step behind him to place the rolls in a gap between plates. As she laid them and the butter on the table and turned to leave, he slapped her on the back.
      'Good girl,' he said dismissively. She recoiled from his touch, only partly from the pain, and muffled a cry. She hurried back into the kitchen.
      When the master and his wife had finished their meal, Brann collected the plates.
      'Wash these before dawn,' demanded Batista. 'And wash your shirt, too. I can see 'is hand on your back.' With that, Batista retired to bed and left Brann to do all the washing alone. Late into the night Brann scrubbed, hot water chapping her fingers, tears staining her eyes, and blood in the shape of a hand dried to the cloth on her back.
Whip, 'Thirty-one.'
      Just days later came the second instalment. Wounds from the first reopened. Wounds from the second gaped raw. This was the punishment for her failure.
      The pain began to numb, began to form part of the senses that blurred as her consciousness wavered. Questions roamed her head with every touch of the whip.
      Why did she leave the coins? No one was there to receive them. Why did she forget the cart? Why did she hide from the man? He did her no harm.
      How could she be so careless?
      Whip, 'And sixty.'
      Darkness.
The roof was a strange place to be sitting, though for some reason she thought nothing of it. From her perch above her quarters she could see the entire property; her master's abode to the left, the stables and pigpen to the right, and ahead of her the single horse-paddock fronted by a gravel courtyard. The wooden fence bordering the paddock not only kept the horses in, but also served as an object to which they bound Brann for her whippings.
      The carriage was outside the stable with one horse harnessed and space for another. Brann saw the stable-laird leading a black mare from the stalls, just as the master and his wife emerged from the house on the opposite side of the courtyard. As both groups closed in on the carriage, Brann turned to her companion.
      'Do you think they've seen it?' she asked. The man, dressed all in black, said nothing. He fingered the material of his shirt, which glowed with purple strips like the reflection of sun on metal.
      She was suddenly looking up at her former vantage on the roof, now sitting on the fence near the carriage. She ignored him and watched the young girl rushing out of the servants' entrance from the home. The slave carried with her a woven basket draped with a white cloth. A third party was on the scene.
      The fourth was hidden. None were aware of the snake, except for Brann. She followed the grey-blue serpent as it trailed into the shade underneath the large wooden wheels.
      Ernm drew alongside the carriage with the mare, leading the horse to be strapped to the holsters. The snake continued under the carriage, and the master, aside his pregnant wife, drew near.
      The horse reared and waved its hooves at the exposed snake, which coiled and revealed its red underbelly, hissed. Ernm lost his grip on the reins as the horse frenzied and broke free. The servant-girl dropped the basket as the mare swerved away. She had narrowly missed a beating with hooves. Instead, the panicked horse struck down the swollen wife as it galloped out the open gates and away.
      Bread rolls spilled from the basket and settled in the dust.
She woke at sunrise with the dream in her mind, but it was soon forgotten. The pain in her back gripped her tightly. She had not noticed until now how much the pain had eased over the few days between lashings. At least, she thought, she would not be so careless next time. Batista had not yet trusted her to return to the markets, going herself the day before when the master had unexpected company. The crone knew she would not be punished as severely for a new crime while punishment for the first was ongoing.
      She did not see Batista that day. Ernm, the stable-laird, had requested her aid instead. He did not speak to her much, and often would not react when Brann asked a question of him, but he was not cruel to her. He set her simple tasks: cleaning the straw in the horses' stalls; sprinkling grain in the chicken pen; emptying buckets of slop in the pigsty.
      Her back often called for a rest, and she was glad that Ernm was lenient. Or perhaps he was simply so engrossed in his own work that he did not notice Brann's pauses. The work was slow and a welcome change from the rushing of the housework.
      Brann wondered how Batista was coping without her. She would likely take out her frustrations on Brann the following day. But today was a holiday, and Brann was determined to enjoy it as best she could.
The final installment came just three days later. Surprisingly, Batista had been no more cruel than usual, but made sure she was present to witness the last of the lashings. Only ten more. Ten lashes left to complete the seventy owed. Ernm tied her hands around the fence, one arm draped over the top rail, the other threaded under, and a post running up between them. She had no room to move. Brann clamped her jaw hard on the bit and pressed her eyelids together, waiting for the first strike.
      Whip, 'Sixty-one.'
      She flinched as the leather tore again at her tender back. Burning pain began to swell through her torso.
      Whip, 'Sixty-five.'
      Nausea set in as Ermn called the halfway mark. Her body trembled and threatened to give way. Skin peeled from flesh. Bright red blood trickled in dark beads down her scarred and swollen skin.
      Whip, 'Sixty-nine. Seventy'
      Her heart skipped. Something was wrong, she knew. But she was too relieved that the ordeal was over to think, and her senses were fading.
      Whip.
      She was totally unprepared and he caught her off balance. A scream issued from her lips. She fell to her knees, and the bindings strangled her wrists. She had served her punishment. She had paid for her failings. Why would it not stop?
      The whip came down again and struck her, 'Seventy-two,' and she wept openly. It took her a moment, then, to realize something had happened. Something had swept over the area. She waited, hearing only the sound of her choked sobs, and dared to twist her neck for the view around her.
      Her eyes struggled to focus. She could make out the unmoving figure of Batista leaning on the wooden railing of the stables, arms folded in triumph. She twisted further around the pole and saw the stable-laird, arm raised, frozen. A blurred black line curled from his hand. The whip. Frozen in air. Frozen in time. But how could this be?
      A fence rail reverberated with an impact. Brann swung her head around and saw the purple-cloaked man leaning on one knee propped up on the lower beam of the stable fence. He was only inches from her, yet still his face was in shadow.
      'You,' Brann spoke, curious but no longer afraid.
      'Yes, me,' he agreed. His tone was not quite mocking.
      Brann searched for words. 'Are you a god?' Brann asked.
      He breathed a laugh but gave no answer.
      'What have you done?'
      'I have done nothing,' he said. 'I am here to offer you a choice.'
      Brann was silent.
      'You have filled your quota. These lashes you now receive are courtesy of Batista.' He glanced at the frozen woman as he said this, then returned his attention to Brann.
      'She has afforded you another ten lashings as compensation for the cart you left behind.'
      Brann would have been shocked, if she didn't know Batista's malicious mind so well.
      'You said I had a choice?'
      'Yes. A choice,' he repeated. 'The choice is this: you may stay and endure Batista's game, or I can set you free. No, not free of slavery,' he said, reading Brann's expression. 'Free of this.' He gestured vaguely at the scene.
      Brann thought for a moment of the consequences if she somehow escaped in the middle of a whipping.
      'I can arrange it so no-one shall miss you,' the man assured.
      Brann thought still. The additional punishment was false. This was Batista's game.
      But it was true that she had abandoned the cart, and her master had not considered this loss as well as that of the coins. She was, indeed, at fault.
      'I must stay,' said Brann, surprising herself to hear the words. Surely she did not mean it!
      No. She was responsible for her actions. She had failed, and she deserved punishment for those failings. Her master had overlooked this small detail, but Batista had not and her punishment was equally valid. She was, after all, chief-maid.
      'I must complete my sentence.'
      'Very well.'- Whip, 'Seventy-three.'
      Brann was again caught off-balance and she screamed in agony. The purple man was gone and time had returned.
      Time, her enemy. Time brought pain.
Brann watched the dry wood slowly burn, slowly turn to black ash by the consuming fire. She wondered of the wood, of it's once beautiful past in a tall oak forest. She thought of the axe that carved into that tree and then set the corpse alight. She wondered too of the fire. How could such beauty grow from such ugliness as death, and warm all near it?
      She thought of her back, now healed. Scarred. Nothing beautiful shall ever come from them, she thought.
      The scars; those horrible scars. She could not see them, but she could always feel them. They pulled at her skin when she moved, they bit her when she lay on them, and screamed whenever she bent.
      Brann reached back a hand and slid it under her shirt, lightly running her fingers over the lumps. She was gentle, and they did not scream. But still, moist beads formed at the corners of her eyes.
      No. She would not cry. She would not let them control her.
      She busied herself in her chores. She swept where she had already swept. She dusted where she had already dusted. She scrubbed the clothes and the dishes as if she meant to wear a hole in them. And she waited for the feelings to pass.
      They did eventually fade, but they never left. From time to time she would find herself thinking of them as she lay in bed in the cold and the dark, and she would weep.
      The thoughts did not leave, but she learned to cope. She learned to continue her life, and how to change her movements to appease the scars. Though they would still sometimes bite.
      Autumn was passing and outside the trees were golden and the ground was littered with shades of orange. Vines grew up the walls of the house. The master's wife, too, had grown. She could no longer say it was all 'just a little extra weight'. She spent most of her time hiding on the property, with constant visits from the nurse.
      But today, they had a picnic planned. The master was taking his expectant wife to a secluded place on the banks of the Marangan River, and they would be alone.
      His slaves made preparations. Brann and Batista cleaned and folded blankets. They cooked fresh food and packed it into baskets, and Ernm thoroughly cleaned the small carriage and bridled the horses.
      'Is this the last of it?' Brann asked and lifted the basket of bread rolls from the kitchen bench.
      'Of course it is,' snapped Batista. 'D'you see anyfin' else?'
      The sound of the rear door closing heralded the exit of the master and his wife.
      ''Urry up!' cried Batista, urging Brann into the hall.
      Brann hurried past her quarters and out the slaves' door to the courtyard. The rolls shifted around in the basket as she moved, and she hurriedly straightened the square of white cloth that was draped over them.
      The wild cry of a horse startled her, and she looked up at the scene. Ernm struggled with the rearing mare not yet fixed to the carriage. His hands slipped from the reins and the horse charged.
      Brann was suddenly struck with a feeling of familiarity, and remembered the scene she had dreamt long ago.
      With only a second's thought, she dropped the basket and fell to the ground. She willed the horse to jump over her and spare the master's wife and unborn child; and to her surprise, it did! A rush of wind and the sound of hooves on gravel behind her told Brann they were safe. The horse disappeared between the slave's quarters and the pigpen and was gone.
      And there Brann lay, amongst scattered bread in the gravel: an acceptable sacrifice for two lives saved.
The inkwell fell and bled onto the stone. Brann had acted quickly but the stubborn stain left by the ink would not budge, no matter how hard she scrubbed. Soapy water, thick bristles and a stiff hand were no match for the black ink. Only a chisel would stand a chance, Brann thought.
      She was being punished, she knew, for ruining the wife's day out. She should have stopped the beast, they said, should have herded it back to the stables. Did they not see she was too small to match such a wild animal?
      And all searching could not recover it. Hoof-prints in the soil led along the side of the house, past the kitchen, and onto the road. But they were soon lost, and the mare was nowhere in sight. No doubt another farmer by now had claimed the horse for his own.
      Brann wondered why she was not whipped. Why was she instead ordered to scrub every inch of the floors in the residence - including the slave's quarters?
      It was an unusual punishment, but no easy feat. The backbreaking labour was made additionally difficult by her scars. The old wounds were tight and would not allow her to bend comfortably without biting pain.
      Brann had scrubbed most rooms of the house, beginning with those occupied by the master or his wife, though she was only now allowed to scrub his study. He was absent for the day and she had been warned to make good use of her time.
      The stain was relentless. Idly, Brann wondered if he would even notice it. Perhaps she could move the desk, only an inch or two, to cover the stain? She stood and surveyed the desk, calculating its weight and manoeuvrability. It was then that the slip of paper caught her eye.
      The usual mess had been cleared, or thrown in a drawer. And this document seemed somehow out of place. With a cursory glance at the closed door, Brann leaned over the chair for a closer inspection. An insignia in red and black marked the corner, bearing the crest of the master's line. Long black letters boldly headlined the page, but the markings meant nothing to Brann and she moved her eyes to the body. Black lines in smaller longhand filled the page, with special markings to emphasise certain words. Her reading skills were sparse, but Batista's lists had taught her something and she recognised a few words. Brann saw her name in red. As she looked over the signatures and figures, she thought she understood. A deep fear settled in her stomach.
      If she was right, she had been sold. To a man named Labrant Wiethweis Droufer. And she would be leaving tomorrow.
      She worked late that night, to finish scrubbing the final floors in the house. She ate none of the ugly stew Batista made for the slaves and headed promptly to her quarters, ignoring the cook's upturned nose.
      She lay in the darkness without sleep. She had always longed to escape this place, but now that escape was inevitable she was not sure she could give it up. This existence was all she had ever known. This storage room with no windows and no doors was her home and her sanctuary. In this room she felt protected. And this she would no longer have.
      Her future was uncertain. She knew nothing of the man who had purchased her, nor of the place she would soon have to live. Could he be any worse than her master? She dared not hope he would be kind.

Last Updated 24.11.04