Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) (5 page)

‘I
am not here to hurt you,’ I shouted, while the small person tried to wriggle
free. I figured that the only way to stop this was to pin him down with my legs
and arms. It did not take long to constrain the small frame and presently there
was calm.

‘Now,
if I let you go will you stop trying to attack me? I am just passing through
and wanting a bed for the night.’ The child scurried back into the darkness and
I backed up against a wall in case of further attacks. I did not want to hurt
him.

Light
fell from the doorway where
Esme
stood with a candle.
‘Nights are cool here,’ she said, and passed me a
woollen
blanket, a washcloth and a bowl of water. At the same time I noticed the child.
He sat hunched over his
knees,
his face buried between
them, wearing a long cotton sheath that scarcely reached his feet, black with
soil.

‘Now
you behave, Celeste,’ said
Esme
.

Just
as I was thinking that it was a strange name to call a boy, Celeste looked up.
I took a breath for I was wrong. Her eyes were large and brown, peering through
masses of dark curls that framed her small face. She looked fearfully from me
to the woman. There was something vulnerable about her that put me instantly at
ease.

I
introduced myself to the girl but she did not respond.

‘Celeste
was sold to us by her mother when she was nine. She’s mute but a good worker.
My husband said to tell you,
Marek
, that if you help
him mend some fences tomorrow he
will
give you back
your coins. Our sons are as useless as he is.’

I
was amazed that a woman spoke so badly of her family, but I agreed to do this.
I asked if I
may
keep the candle. The woman shrugged,
put down the light and left.

Celeste’s
fingernails were caked with dirt and her sheath was grubby and torn. She looked
young, perhaps thirteen years; it was difficult to say, as she was so thin.

Slaves
were not heard of where I came from, and I was saddened by her appalling living
conditions. Although the islanders were bad tempered and suspicious at times,
they would not have allowed a child to remain in this condition. Someone like
Silvia would have taken her in.

I
told her about me, and the island I came from. The girl did not look at me but
remained curled up into a ball. I knew she was listening to every word; what I
caught in her eyes was understanding and a desire for further knowledge. She
perhaps had seen much of the frailties of people – something I had still
to learn.

Eventually
I fell into a deep sleep and woke to a rainy day. There was no sign of Celeste
in the barn.

Back
at the house the girls were bickering and the sons bullied their mother. The
man grunted a greeting with a strong smell of beer on his breath. I followed
him out to the cattle pastures, catching a glimpse of Celeste in the distance
carrying pails of slops to feed the pigs. One of the sons yelled out to her. I
could not repeat such vulgar words, and Celeste either didn’t hear or chose to
ignore it. The father did not reprimand his son; instead, the man’s sniggers
seemed to encourage further yelling.

I
agreed to work late into the day for another night under a roof and another
meal. Though I was eager to get away from this family without heart.

At
the end of the day, I sat whittling a circular piece of wood with my knife. I
carved the image of a rose into its
centre
. One of
the boys offered me a beer and I declined. He sat next to me, much to my
disappointment, and boasted of winning many fistfights, of getting away with
petty theft, and other things that only bullies and thugs can relate to. Only
when he got to the subject of Celeste was I interested in what he had to say.

I
discovered that Celeste was fifteen years of age. When she was nine, her
mother, travelling with a singing and acrobatic troupe, knocked on their door
and asked if their father wanted to buy her. They bargained a price and she had
since proved useful.

‘She
can be a handful at times,’ said the boy, a couple of years younger than me yet
talking the brash talk of some men. He described how in the early days Celeste
had to be taught a few things. He held up a baton and I could only imagine the
beatings she endured to become a submissive, pathetic creature, treated no
better than the animals on their farm. She was not allowed in the house except
to wash the floors. She had a small cooking pot in which she had made her own
meals since the first day she arrived. Given a small sack of oats, few
vegetables, and occasionally an egg when they were plentiful, she was to make
these last a week, sometimes longer.

I
ate my meal with the family. When it was over I rushed to the barn preferring
Celeste’s company, even though she didn’t speak.

In
the barn I caught Celeste resting her head against a horse and stroking its
neck, finding that animals were better company than humans. She had a gentle
hand and the creature nuzzled her responsively.

I
told her what I knew of her past and wished things could have been better for
her. She walked around the barn checking each animal and pretending not to
listen to me. When she finished her inspection the light was just fading and
she returned to her pile of straw ready for sleep. I handed her my own
woollen
blanket and she accepted it without thanks.

My
palm was open to show her the carved rose. She looked at it distrustfully, but
I placed it beside her and relayed my plan to find my sister. I talked for over
an hour until the candle had nearly burnt down, describing the town of Valona
and suggesting it would only take her a day to walk there where she might find
other work, and likely be paid for her services.

While
telling her this I noticed that she
lay
very still,
her face turned away. At first I thought I had bored her to sleep but when I
held my candle above her there were tears on her face that had turned patches
of dirt into mud pools. The carved rose was missing from where I had left it.

With
my washcloth I cleaned the mud from her face to reveal a smooth, youthful olive
complexion. I handed her the cloth to clean her own hands and feet. She did not
object, so used to instruction, but she would not look into my eyes. It was
then I noticed the bruises up and down her arms, evidence of her beatings.

‘When
I return from the north, I will stop in again and check that you are in good
health, if you are still here,’ I said. Her tears ceased and she once again lay
down to face the wall.

I
did not sleep well. I had been slow in my years to learn of the laws and
injustices of people, and in just a few weeks much of these had come to light.
These injustices coupled with the treatment of this child left me that night
feeling restless, frustrated and angry. In the morning, Celeste was gone again,
no doubt to do her chores.

I
did not go near the farmhouse to say my farewell or collect my coin fearing I
might lose control and beat one of the sons with my fists. Instead I wandered
the fields in search of Celeste. She was nowhere to be found. I hoped that she
had run away to Valona after hearing my description.

I
entered the oak woods, given enough information from the low autumn sun to know
which direction to take.

The
oaks were huge inside the woods, blocking out much of the light, and their long
shadows added to the gloom. As I walked, I felt that I was being followed.
Several times I stopped to listen but my spy was stealthy. I was far into the
woods – creating a deep wall of trees behind me – when I heard the
rustling of fallen leaves. This time I hid waiting and was about to rush at the
human shape emerging from behind a tree when I saw that it was Celeste.

She
stood holding a water skin and a small sack, presumably her only possessions.
The question in her eyes was clear. Would I take her with me?

‘Celeste,
I fear this journey is not something you should attempt with me. Although the
weather is mild now it will change. You do not have warm clothes or shoes. You
will freeze and I do not have enough food for both of us.’

She
looked down at her feet in the damp earth but did not move to leave.

‘Go
back. I will find you on my return.’ I turned to continue my journey in thick
woodlands.

‘Wait!’
yelled a voice behind me.

Esme
ran
towards me, her large chest heaving from exertion, and she carried two knotted
linen bags. My first instinct was to ignore her, as I still struggled to
forgive such negligence; however, her effort with this task forced my
attention.

‘Take
her,’ gasped
Esme
, still trying to catch her breath.
‘There is nothing for her here. My sons cannot rest whilst she is around. They
are young bucks with other things on their mind, and as brainless as the sheep
on the hills. I do not want to see this girl become their plaything, presuming
I am not too late. Though, you cannot tell with her. She gives nothing away.’

I
had not taken much notice of
Esme
before. She had
perhaps lived unhappily with an unkind husband who had run her ragged. It was
clear he had taught his children no respect. And
Esme
,
who was probably a good woman once, with dreams of marriage and healthy
children, was left with a family of disappointment.

‘Celeste
deserves another chance. I promised her mother and I have not
honoured
it. I have packed you some food, a shawl for
Celeste, and some leathers for her feet. Perhaps you can find her some winter
boots along the way. She knows the woods. She can lead you northward.

‘I’m
sorry Celeste,’ said the older woman, before setting down the bags and turning
back to her joyless home. Celeste watched her go without expression.

Celeste

Esme
left. Good riddance to the lazy cow. She had stood by and watched
her sons beat me, spit on
me,
her daughters kick and
mimic me. And all the while she did nothing. This was no act of kindness. She
was glad to get rid of me – to clear her conscience. I had a new master.
His carving hung on a strip of leather around my neck hidden under my dress, a
token that I belonged to him.

Marek
looked at me as if I might bite him before retrieving the bag. I
commenced our departure to show the route and he followed, his head bowed
slightly like a lost lamb, deep in thought, wondering how he could take care of
me. He needn’t have worried. I was not like the girls on the farm who needed
constant attention.

I
wasn’t always mute, and I have another name. My real name is
Celestina
, the one my mama called me. Mama could no longer
find the money to feed me so she sold me. It would only be a short time, she
said, and this family was kind with plenty of food to help my bones grow.
Later, said Mama, she would come back for me and buy me back.

For
six years I had waited for her. I had endured the cold, the loneliness, the
constant feelings of hunger,
the
family of bullies,
all with the hope that Mama would return for me. It was not until
Marek
came that I knew she wasn’t coming back.

My
mother was a singer. She and others of her troupe would camp at the edge of
towns beside creeks. They would dance and sing, performing in town
centres
or for wealthy homeowners. It was exciting because
sometimes we would meet up with other travellers and all perform together. At
these times I got to play with others the same age.

Mama
had several lovers who came and left the troupe. I never knew my real father.
Each time my mother found a man I would be asked to call him Papa.
Sometimes they were kind
,
sometimes they
were not
. Sometimes my mother would argue and scream at them; sometimes
they would argue and scream at her.

Mama’s
last boyfriend was Sasha. His name is etched in my mind, and I will never
forget that he is the reason I was abandoned.
I dream of
finding him one day and putting a dagger through his heart when he is sleeping.
Sasha performed acrobatic tricks in the troupe and women always smiled at him.
When the weather turned bad one year we headed for the sun in the south.
Halfway
there
Mama got sick and couldn’t sing for
weeks. Sasha resented me even more when he had to pay for my food while my
mother was ‘confined’ as they called it. There was little to eat, and while
Mama and I remained in our tent, the others performed. They came back often
with no coin. There were few people out and about, preferring to stay
indoors
beside their fires.

We
performed mainly in busy towns, since villagers were often too poor to pay for
entertainment. Some threw rocks at us and called us names like gypsies and
beggars. But we were more than that. My Mama said so. We were talented
entertainers, she would say, who earned an honest living.

It
was a difficult and hungry time. We resorted to begging at convents and church
doors occasionally receiving bowls of gruel with milk, or sometimes onions and
beans, which Sasha said were not good enough for their own tables. My mother
seemed to survive on air, so bad was her illness. She would drag herself
around, her face grey, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, all the while shivering
and muttering. I tried to take care of her and bathe her forehead like she did
me sometimes. I would brush her hair and plait it around her face. I would
scrub her clothes in the creeks. The men stayed away from us. Sometimes after
we slept I would wake in panic to see if they had abandoned us completely.