Hell, p.2
Hell, page 2
“Tat come sit!” Her father cried.
She drifted in a trance-like state to her place at his right. Wooden pallets laid over the mud, a cushion prepared for her. Once seated, a bottle of vodka thrust into her hands. Drinking deeply, she grimaced at the familiar burn. Alcohol was the one thing that made life slightly more bearable. More importantly, if she drank enough, she would not remember what he would do to her this night…
The music began and the drinking continued in earnest. Spirits raising, conversation deafening, culminating in the raucous, party-like atmosphere which accompanied all their nightly meals.
After about thirty minutes of increasingly drunken revelry, Yurgis clapped his mighty hands for silence and stood, addressing the troupe.
“Comrades, we have reason to rejoice. Our tour of Russia is nearly ended, and well worth our while. Much gold and silver we have gained, yes? We have performed for every noble from here to Moscow, even Czar himself, earning much respect and honor.” Yells of approval erupting from the back. “We are now a day’s ride from Warsaw where we put on finest show yet. Comrades, SKOAL!”
Amidst a chorus of shouts and hollering, everyone drank, including Tat. The edges of reality were becoming fuzzy, and for a moment she was able to forget how miserable she was. The band struck up a rousing tarantella.
A hand grazed her shoulder, startling her. Ulma, the pyromancer’s wife. She’d been with the troop a dozen years or more, beginning first as a follower, a hanger-on. In some miserable village, in some forgotten corner of the world, she’d thrown her lot in with them, convinced of a better life, or at least a more interesting one. Years of menial tasks had worn away her youthful patina, but in marriage she’d achieved a measure of respect. Now tasked with feeding their ever-growing family, as well as managing the sizable army of wives, paramours and hopefuls that saw to the less glamorous aspects of running a traveling show. She delivered a plate of roast goat with boiled potatoes and cabbage before scurrying back to the scullery...
Staring into the blaze as she began to eat, consuming the food as the flames consumed the wood. Perhaps our souls are like fires, burning alive, she mused, immolating our youth, devouring food to warm our bones. The vodka, like fire in her stomach, it’s liquid properties seeking to quench the terrible inferno that raged in her heart.
Once she finished her meal, she returned to the bottle, arching her back and tipping it straight up as the dregs gurgled down her throat. When at last Yurgis nudged her with his elbow, she was pleasantly drunk.
“Tatiana, you dance for us, yes?”
She nodded, secretly pleased by his request, only feeling at peace, truly herself, when she was dancing. Rising, a little wobbly at first, she took her place near the fire on a patch of dry ground. At the edge of her peripheral vision, Mikel, gazing intently at her.
The music started, launching her into a flare of practiced passion. All thoughts gone, people gone, just her, the music, the movement. Pure mechanical, mathematical grace. Her markings flashed in the burning light as the music flowed like a stream over the drumbeat as if over rocks in a riverbed.
She leapt and spun as the song neared its climax, rose and fell with it’s undulating waves. Euphoria gripping her, sweat beading on her brow. This was the feeling she sought, immersed in something distinctly separate from herself, abandoning her troubled mind to something deep, real and true.
Harnessing her momentum she folded her arms, going into a tight spin, skirt flaring out, the world around her blurring with motion. A new move she’d been working on secretly. A surprise she’d been saving for Warsaw, but couldn’t resist the temptation to reveal. Being more than a little drunk, after four revolutions she nearly stumbled. Kicking out of it in a swift recovery, she managed a halfway graceful leap as the song wound down. Ultimately coming to rest as the tune faded out.
For a moment everyone breathed hard through the silence, then as one burst into a fit of cheering and praise, none louder than her father. Tat returned to her place beside him, taking up a fresh bottle as the last light of sunset spread its colors across the darkling sky…
Chapter Two:
Awakening
She awakened to a dawn that was black and bruised, perfectly matching her mood. A hangover settled upon her brow like a crown. She heaved a heavy sigh and turned over, drawing the covers tighter around her, and sought to retreat into dreams. Rain pattered on the roof in a soothing wash of white noise. The caravan would be moving on today.
Already she could hear activity outside as tents collapsed and people went about the business of breaking camp. Small staccato bursts of chatter interspersed with her father’s baritone barks. Tat was glad she had no responsibilities to the actions taking place. This sense of disconnection carried her to the edge of sleep, but the cruel, gray morning light reflected in her mirror and shone upon her face. Most traveling days she never left the warm confines of her bed, suspended between lucid sleep and unconscious wake.
Slipping into the dream, slowly, silently; Yurgis stood beside her at the edge of a cliff, while thousands of meters below a wooded landscape stretched off into soft, inviting nothingness...
He pushed her over.
Down she fell, the ground rushing up to meet her.
Upon impact, her sleeping body jerked with a spasm. Upon her brow, a film of cold sweat, her stomach threatening to void its contents all over her bed. Hurriedly grabbing her chamber pot, she emptied her guts into it, the pungent smell of goat meat, vodka, and bile making her retch with redoubled effort. Eventually trickling down to dry heaves, fatigued muscles clenching in paroxysms of pain. A thin line of spittle stretched from her lower lip to the rim of the pot and she wiped it away in disgust.
Searching her memory of last night, everything after the dance was blank, empty space, lost time, familiar pains being the only betraying sign of what occured. A groan escaped her as she sat up, performing her morning ritual. Whipping her old quilt and sheets back, scanning for traces. Not really knowing what she was looking for, she methodically checked herself. All she knew was what she’d overheard, that when a woman was deflowered, she bled. Relief at the sight of clean bedclothes calmed her heart; he always disdained her womb, with it’s illustrated opening, preferring to violate her in… other ways.
He made no secret of his plans to auction off her maidenhead to the highest bidder, be it a marriage bond or otherwise. It was one of his favorite empty threats to throw in her face when she resisted him. That one day he would sell her to one who treated her far worse. That his greed was greater than his desire, she was eternally grateful. Though in her own eyes she may be ruined beyond any hope of salvation, her virginity remained intact, her last vestige of any form of goodness or purity in the eyes of others. If that was taken from her, what would be left to keep her from utter despair?
The wagon chose this moment to shudder and jolt into forward motion, exacerbating her nausea, tersely jostled from side to side. At least they were on their way. Another step forward in this grim death march; another day in this endless nightmare her life had become…
With no small difficulty, she staggered to the window where she dumped the chamber pot out; the satisfying slap as the vomit hit the mud, both substances remarkably close to the same consistency. Then she made her morning toilet which followed out the window. She hoped at least one of her fellow performers would accidently step in it. A petty, insignificant act of vengeance for their cowardice and neglect.
And the rain continued to fall.
Dropping onto her clothing chest, she settled her back against the wall, passively observing the countryside rolling past her open window. Endless fields where peasant families labored for their master’s gain, wasting entire generations tending vast tracts of potatoes and grain, no better than slaves. Toiling away lifetimes with no hope of anything better. And in the distance, towering over all, the Carpathian mountains loomed like the backbone of the world, bearing silent witness to the injustice of human civilization.
The cool, fresh air was a balm in her lungs, slowly pacifying the sickness that roiled in her guts, headache even beginning to abate somewhat. Drifting up from the column of wagons, faint songs and snatches of singing... traveling music. At this rate they would hopefully reach Warsaw by nightfall.
Abandoning herself to unwelcome intrusions of memory, images of the past few months of the tour drifted through her mind with pleasant, yet tainted, nostalgia. Especially their days in Moscow which, under different circumstances, could’ve been counted among the best days of her life. Springtime in that city was unrivaled in its splendor. The flowering trees, the exotic buildings, the wonderful people who treated her like a queen. The wealth of brothels meant that he had elsewhere to go to fulfill his sick desires, and the night they performed for Czar Nicholas was a night that would forever live in her heart.
The royal chamber orchestra had joined their little band and she’d danced to the finest music in all the world. Her spine still tingled when she thought of the ovation, the applause, the undivided attention of the unattainable ruling class. It was like a dream come true after all the years of parading her pearls before swine.
Truly they’d never put on a better show. Everyone outdid themselves; sword swallowers, mentalists, and acrobats alike, executing daring feats of unequaled dexterity and skill. Never one to be upstaged, Yurgis himself had wrestled and subdued a fully grown bear brought in from His Majesty’s menagerie.
Then, the moment all would remember. The one she could never forget. Strapped to the wooden wheel, limbs spread wide, as Yurgis exhibited his mastery of throwing knives. Not an act they performed often, rarely failing to leave the crowd breathless. He never missed, or at least she’d never seen any prior evidence to the contrary. Once, he hit a running deer in the eye at twenty meters…
Thunk!
Even the recollected echo of a knife burying itself in wood centimeters from her ear induced her body to jerk involuntarily. The ones near the head were the worst, and Yurgis always waited til she was upside down...
Thunk!
This time convulsing into a ball, drawing her knees up and hiding her face, quailing at the sound which haunted her nightmares…
He’d nicked her ear, but only just. The crowd gasped collectively, thrilling at the sight of blood, the spectacle of primal danger...
After the main show was over, all the aristocracy in the province came to admire her bodily miracle, a master tattooist claimed she was the greatest wonder he’d ever beheld. The Czar himself even expressed an interest in keeping Tat in his court, but Yurgis wouldn’t hear of it, breaking her heart and crushing her fragile spirit once again.
Tempered by a lifetime spent wandering faery tale castles and fantasy kingdoms, wistful images grew out of her imagination, depicting what it might’ve been like, living at the royal court. To attain what they take for granted, that which she most desired. Unfettered Existence in a wondrous reality of power and privilege, free from fear and constant threat of physical abuse.
I am unworthy of such a life…
Her hand strayed to her throat, surprised to discover the silver cross still about her neck. It swung between her breasts for she still hadn’t bothered to dress. Reaching behind, she undid the clasp, examining the man Jesus engraved on the tiny crucifix, head bowed in death. Though the religion that formed around him was largely a mystery, the suffering of Christ was known to her, often likened to her own suffering. Such a wellspring of strength he contained, was there such a well within herself?
In Yurgis’ mind God was a delusion maintained by those without sufficient personal power to take the reins of their destiny in their own hands. Choosing instead to place them in the care of a fictional creator, a jealous, angry father figure. In that respect, Yurgis was her god, an unassailable punisher who controlled her fate.
The feelings in her heart told her he must be wrong. The Universe was too far reaching and complex to be an accident. The clockwork paths of planets, the unsolvable riddle of existence. Sun and rain that gave rise to plants, plants that nourished animals, animals that fed and served humans; there had to be a plan. As a symphony needs a conductor, the Universe must need God.
Forsaking the unknowable, she delved further back, to a time before all this. When she was a child, Papa had been good to her, and she’d thrived upon the attention lavished upon her wherever she went. In those days she’d parade before the crowd stark naked in that shameless way of innocent children. Nothing to fear, for her giant father was there to protect her; always enough food and a warm place to sleep. Often she would climb into his bed on cold winter nights. He drank much less back then, and would tell her harrowing stories of growing up in London, and his adventures as a thief and treasure hunter.
As the years passed, things changed. The carefully laid architecture of her childhood fantasies toppled down around her as he began to drink progressively more and more. The beatings began, quickly escalating in violence and duration. Then, on the day of her first monthly blood, he took her...
Ever present at the forefront of her mind, the recollection of that day still inspired revulsion. Like a gangrenous wound that refuses to heal, growing more infected by the day, poisoning any new flesh that tries to grow in. Once finished, he broke down and cried, words burning into her mind as if spoken today.
Tatiana, you are abomination. Should have been killed on day you entered world. Now... I am accomplice to your corruption.
The words mystified her then, but infuriated her now.
Abomination. Corruption.
What had he meant? It was doubtful she’d ever discover the answer. Since that dark day, her life bitterly decayed into this endless procession of unbearable agony.
She shook off these worthless ruminations and checked the position of the sun. Still early morning, the caravan would not be stopping for lunch for five or six more hours, and the rain was starting to come down harder. Closing and bolting the shutter, she perused her bookshelf, beloved stories beckoning like old friends, settling on a treasured collection of Italian poetry. Though unable to understand Italian, she found joy in the words, making up her own meanings as she went along.
Was the writing upon her a poem? She wondered. An epic verse extolling the virtues of the Universe? Was she a living Odyssey? King Arthur’s lady of the lake? Come and see, a living, breathing being, decorated in the glory of fate. When she was idle her thoughts tended to rhyme. Maybe she could be a poetess herself one day.
The lumpy mattress creaked as she flopped on her bed, opening the book to a well worn, oft read page. L’Infinito by Giacomo Leopardi. She began to recite aloud, trying to emulate as best she could the smooth, flowing vernacular she recalled from her short stay in Rome, a lifetime ago.
“Sempre caro mi fu quest’ermo colle,
e questa siepe, che da tanta parte
dell’ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati
spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
silenzi, e profondissima quïete
io nel pensier mi fingo; ove per poco
il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
infinito silenzio a questa voce
vo comparando; e mi sovvien l’eterno,
e le morte stagioni, e la presente
e viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa
immensità s’annega il pensier mio:
e il naufragar m’è dolce in questo mare…”
Her voice died in the stillness of the room. This poem always excited her in ways she couldn’t describe, the way the words rolled off the tongue. She wondered what it was about… it had to be something beautiful.
Replacing the volume on her shelf, she returned to bed, allowing the gentle rocking motion to comfort her. Presently, sliding down the slippery slope and into the arms of sleep. Dreaming again, though no longer the well-known nightmares of falling or fighting. This was much more bizarre, yet paradoxically, somehow more familiar...
An impressive chamber. Walls of sandstone, windowless, opulently decorated with thick, hand-woven tapestries of baroque design. Arrayed all about her, a sea of red velvet pillows displaying royally elaborate, gold-thread embroidery, upon which she reclined in great comfort. Warm light emanating from curious red stone lamps. Muted shock at seeing her skin free of markings, a blank canvas meeting her gaze, prompting the sudden realization…
‘I’m dreaming’
And with a rush, waking consciousness flowed in, possessing her, something she’d never before experienced in a dream. Able to move and act according to her will, she quit her place of comfort, pacing the room, studying the objects it contained. To her puzzlement, nothing she looked at held still, once observed, objects would melt and mutate until they were unrecognizable, as if her dreaming mind had only the most tenuous grip on this place.
Richly detailed tapestries depicting extraordinary events and battles billowed and stretched. Woven baskets of exotic fruits, none of which she could recognize, pulsing and beating like disembodied hearts. Books printed on paper thin sheets of crystal and emerald, pliant and malleable in her hands. A music box exactly like the one in her room caught her attention, but when the key was turned the tune came out a nonsense conglomeration of sounds. Holding her hand up in front of her face, the fingers slowly grew into veins as her hand became an oak leaf…
“Your Grace, it is time.”
Startled, she spun to face a tall red-skinned woman, bare from the waist up, with the head of a panther. A predatory look crouched in her large feline eyes, and a swishing tail peeking around from behind. Her muscular arms were encircled in golden snake bracelets and at her throat, where her midnight-black panther fur gave way to pendulous breasts, an elaborately jeweled necklace nestled. A lump in the pit of Tat’s stomach signaled fear, resistance to her presence.
“Come, my dear, it would not do to keep him waiting.” A paw, replete with claws, beckoned menacingly. Propelled against her will, the pair exited the room.
