Dirt (The Dirt Trilogy) (7 page)

It can
’t be morning. Darkness fills the room. The small fire
from last night is gone. In fact, I’m no longer in the hut. The stench
of rot and filth fills my nostrils.

“
The secret awakens.” A dark sinister voice comes from the
corner of the strange room. A man wearing a black skirt that meets
the ground and long-sleeved tailored black jacket stands quietly in
the corner. There are no windows. Burning torches mounted on the
stone walls provide a limited view of my surroundings.

“
Who are you? Where am I?” I insist my fear breaking through
my uncertainty.
He ignores me. He’s on the other side of a set of bars that I
check in vain. My fears are confirmed; I’m locked in. His ominous
shadow
heads off with enthusiasm, like
a
kid who has
done
something he’s proud of. I sit in the corner dazed and alone.
How
did I get here? Where is Rowen? Is this a nightmare?
The slime of
my own skin lets me know this is real.
Three men march toward my cell. A tall, lanky man covered in
a cloak brown and black unlocks my cage.
“Straif wants to see you.” Air passes coarsely across his vocal
chords like that of a chain smoker.
Straif, I remember Rowen
mentioning him. The Dark Thorn, they have me.
My mind races and
panic travels along my nerves instigating the trembling of my
hands. Shadows around me reveal themselves. The men all look a
lot like Phagos and Duir, dark wrinkled skin, green piercing eyes,
long blond unkempt hair, and wearing long black skirts. Two of
them grab me tightly, one on each arm, forcing me to my feet.
“Move it,” one of them instructs.
“Follow me,” the tallest one demands.
I do as I’m told. I’ve no idea how I got here. The last thing I
remember was falling to sleep in the hut at Skewantee.
We walk up several flights of a stone stairwell, narrow, aged,
smelling of dust and revolt, with one man in front of me and two
men behind me. My pace slows and one following jabs me harshly
in the back with a cane.
“Straif doesn’t have all day.” His rough voice joins the chant of
his cane each time it hits the stone floor.
“Where are we going?” I have nine days left before I’m to
become their victim, so I thought I’d ask.
“We’re going to prepare for your birthday. And what a party
that will be,” the shortest of the three responds with a wicked sneer
and haunting tone.
“A little early don’t you think?” Sarcasm coats my words as I
ascend up the staircase.
“You’ll be eighteen in seven days and we’ve been waiting for
the day a very long time. Everything must be in order.” He speaks
as if he knows something I don’t. As if I’m unsuspecting of their
plans. I don’t know the details, but I know enough.
Seven days.
I thought I had nine days before the dreaded day,
my eighteenth birthday.
How long have I been here? Where is here.
I’ve lost two days.
I’m
shoved into a
huge
room beautifully
adorned with
enormous pieces of art. Most appear to be early Renaissance and
reveal magnificence. Huge columns support the ornate cathedral
ceilings. No chairs. No furniture. There’s a vacant podium which
extends along the full back of the room standing about three feet
above the black glistening, polished floors. They’re like ebony
mirrors clearly capturing each reflection. Specks of light from the
torches illuminates the enormous space.
A force pushes me again from behind by the tallest of the three
pawns making a surge of pain run from the middle of my back
down my side where his thick yellow fingernails pierce my skin
through my shirt.
I stumble to the middle of the room. My escorts remain by the
door
quiet,
pretentiously
awaiting
reward.
They’re
very
overconfident.
Is my capture their accomplishment?
I’m helpless,
alone, and worried about Rowen. I know this is bad, but it’s going
to get worse. I’ll be eighteen in seven days. I’ve lost time. Maybe
time is different here.
Are the days shorter?
It’s possible. Anything
is possible.
I’m not
feeling
myself. While
standing
here
helpless on
display, I realize I haven’t had my medicine since I arrived in Durt.
No one knows of my health problems, not even me. I only know I
have one. My unnamed illness may kill me before they do. The
thought of the unknown of what might happen if I don’t take the
yellow muck scares me to death. I’ve never really had to worry
about it until now. Because my illness has never been explained to
me, my imagination has no limitations about what would happen if
I miss a dose. Death is insinuated. If not death, I know the
consequences would be bad. I recall all of those times I complained
about the yellow muck, now I wish I had it. In the loneliness of my
destruction, I wish I could taste the bitterness of the yellow syrup,
the hope it gave me, the peace it gave Dad.
Anticipating the arrival of the infamous Straif, I start to believe
waiting is going to be a part of his torture, a part of my suffering.
Crisp against
the floor, I
hear
each footstep
distinct and
echoing through the massive room. From behind one of the large
pillars, a tall blond man with a wickedly flawless face swanks onto
the platform. I wouldn’t say he’s beautiful, because of the evil that
evaporates from his skin, but splendor hides underneath what’s on
the surface. His black robe floats behind him. He is statuesque and
sure of his space. Turning to face me, he sits down in one flowing
motion, graceful and intentional right in the middle of the platform.
He stares at me saying nothing. The massive room fills with
deafening silence. I look at the three behind me who wear anxiety
in the creases of their eyes. They’re obviously unsure of what will
become of them now that their leader has arrived.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my Ashe. Ashe Leigh Fair.”
I turn back focusing on the dark voice at the front of the room.
“Who are you? Where am I? What day is it?”
“Whoa, whoa. Wait a minute my dear. One question at a time.”
He’s not endearing. His voice is twisted and infected. He appears to
be one who would enjoy a slow methodical torture of whatever
victim, whatever sacrifice he may have on hand. Consequently, I’m
today’s special. “Perfectly understandable that you have much to
ask. I’m Lord Straif. Leader of The Dark Thorn. In regard to your
second request, welcome to my humble abode, the Conul Cuan
Caverns. You’ve been asleep for two days my dear, so to answer
your real question, there are seven days left until the celebration of
our life and your death.” He pauses. “Unfortunately.” His deep
voice is calm and straightforward.
I hear the slow agonizing tempo of another set of footsteps
enter the room. A black cloak covers the man who makes the sound
of hard feet pressing into the black marble floor, and I notice the
green emerald glow of his eyes. Professor Bran stands on the
podium staring at me as if he knew I’d be here. How did he get
here? What was he doing in Missoula? I tremble as I realize he’s
been a part of this all along. What is his role in my ....my... death
going to be?
“Well, well, well. I
see
you’ve
made
it,”
he
says with
arrogance. He’s proud of himself. I keep my mouth shut. He
doesn’t have the same effect on me he had before. Now, he’s
repulsive.
His enchanting methods to lure me in satisfied his plan.
I’m here and that’s all he wanted.
I’ve got to get a handle on what’s going on, what’s about to
happen. I need to keep quiet and try to figure out what I’m up
against. I’m not dead yet. I’m not going to give in to them, not until
I haveto. Not until it’s my only option. Still, beyond all hope I try
to remove the speck of doubt seeping through my brain; the
uncertainty of what I might become. I’m the sacrifice of all living
things. I hope there is a way to overcome this nightmare that isn’t a
dream at all. There has to be a way to survive. I’m not giving up on
life easily. Rowen gives me hope that there is more to life than what
I’ve known. Where is he? Is there even a reason to fight? I relive
our moment in the hut, the completeness that absorbed me. He is
worth any battle I might have to face.
Straif elegantly rises to his feet.
“Well done, Bran. She arrived in plenty of time.”
Bran remains behind his leader quiet and sure of himself. Straif
steps off the
podium
and approaches me face-toface. He’s a
skyscraper towering over me. Fear seeps from my pores as sweat
runs down my neck. The disgusting scent of evil poisons the air. He
revels in his ability to terrorize me, looking me over as if I’m about
to be run through an auction, circling me.
“In a few days, you’ll change history my dear, Ashe. The
world, your world will never be the same. We’ll finally have our
place.” He takes his pale finger, with his long crusty yellow
fingernail, and brushes it along my cheek. He leans forward, his dry
red lips to my ear and whispers with a long sinister breath making
sure I hear him.“Nothing will ever be the same.”
Sickened, I remain motionless, too scared to move. He smells
of sour, dirty water. The unwashed. The unclean. The stench makes
me hold my breath. After he fills me with unrest, he walks away.
Bran follows
as the leader leaves
the room,
his black cloak
sweeping through the air. The professor gives me one quick glance,
his assignment fulfilled as if to say, “I win.”
The goons who presented me to Straif take me by the arms,
twisting and pushing me toward the door. I move like a rag doll.
Putting up a fight is futile. Beyond the tall wooden doors, I follow
the steps in which I am forced.
We walk by a huge room filled with small creatures running
about, working, moving huge pieces of antiquated ornate furniture,
laying out rugs, causing dust to fly through the air, clouding the
space. As we pass by the open doorway of the room, they freeze in
their tracks catching a glimpse of me. The apparent reason for their
duties is preparation for the big day, the day of sacrifice. Their
yellow eyes gleam as if they have seen a celebrity. Some perch
themselves on tabletops like buzzards in order to get a better look.
Their crooked smiles reveal their needle sharp teeth and they appear
to want more than an autograph. My eyes capture their every move
frame-by-frame, second-by-second.
“Move it,”
the
bulky
blond
growls
jolting
me from the
moment. “Those imps would have you for lunch if we turn them on
you and we have to keep you in one piece. At least for now.”
The guard closest to the open door sticks his huge square
shaped head into the room and yells, “Get to work, Mongrels!”
With that, the hideous wrinkled beasts begin working sporadically.
I stand out here in this world of blond beings. It’s strange, in Darby,
I felt invisible.
As I walk, the tiredness in my legs oozes through and I feel
stranger by the minute. There’s tingling throughout my entire body,
how my leg gets when it falls asleep except this strangeness covers
my entire body. I’m feverish. Maybe, I’m getting sick because I
haven’t had yellow muck in days. Straif may not have me alive
after all.
My escorts lead me down the dark corridors with only shades
of light offered by randomly lit torches. We descend to lower levels
of the caverns. My legs are heavier with each step. I don’t know
what’s happening to me, but I do know I’ve got to find a way out of
here.
I worry something dire has happened to Rowen.
Will I see him
again?
I knowhe won’t forget me. Something happened that night
in the hut. Something neither of us will forget.
Works of art from every period imaginable line the walls of the
huge hallways, from artists I know from my world. Michelangelo,
Picasso, Monet. Baroque, Surrealism, Renaissance. I wonder how
they acquired them. Some of the pieces cover entire walls, while
others are a few inches in diameter.
As we walk down more and more flights of stairs, we make our
way through another corridor. Then I notice two paintings, in oils.
They’re mine. The assignments from Professor Bran. “The Family
Portrait” and “My Home.”
What are they doing hanging on these
walls?
As we walk slowly past them, I pause briefly gazing intently
at my homework. Memories of my once beautiful home, with the
shrubs surrounding and protecting it bring a sense of peace, but as I
stare, the colors begin to move, merging together, morphing into
another picture: a picture of burned ashes, destruction, rubble; a
picture of darkness, destruction, and disdain. I think I’m losing my
mind.
I look closer at the picture of the family portrait. Dad is
standing by me holding a picture of my mother, the original. As my
gaze ponders the oils begin to mix spontaneously on the canvas and
I see my father sitting on the side of a bed in an unfamiliar room
with his fist under his chin. His brow is wrinkled in worry.
“Get a move on, Secret.” I receive a firm push from one of my
escorts forcing my back to spasm.
He tosses me into my cage, behind the bars of confinement.
Without a trial, I’m guilty of living. An infraction I didn’t choose.
My entire body tingles. Something is terribly wrong with me.
Along with my physical detriment, every inch of my heart is a
shallow vacant glass.
I have to figure a way out of this prison. I sit for a while
contemplating my dilemma. How can I escape? I don’t even know
where I am? “Caverns.” Apparently I’m at the bottom of a hollow.
My fingers and toes sting with periods of numbness, but fear helps
to cover the physical pain.
As a little girl, I was sometimes scared to go to sleep. I would
lie in bed and imagine holding my mother’s hand as I floated into
dreams. She helped me to go to sleep without fear. I needed her
more than ever. But she’s not here. She’s never going to be here.
My mind continues to race until I lose the battle. Darkness fills
my eyes and sleep takes over.