Heartfelt Sounds (3 page)
As the redheaded woman shoots up and stabs him in the stomach. Once. Twice. He drops to his knees.
“Take him.” she spits to the boy. “Take him and never come my way again.”
I mourned it.
Fell to my knees, threw my head back and cried out as the boy and his father disappeared down the alleyway.
Beseeched the gods.
Beseeched the zither.
But it sang its final swansong and lay upon the ground in brown pieces. Silver strings will never be played again. Its unique voice of crystal bells will forever be silent.
I cried.
“Hey,”
A gentle touch—tentative. Unsure.
“Hey?” she says again, hand to my shoulder. Her fingers pinch. “You need to get up and get inside—if that boy makes good on his father's threat to get Kapua, you're going to need to hide—”
I turn to look into her face. Pale. Freckled. Dancing green eyes that are confident. Cheery. “Don't worry.” she says. Winks. “I've done this thousands of times before.”
She forces me up—invites me inside.
Brown tile shines beneath me when I'm in. She slams the door behind us—
bam!
Ushers me forward through an airy hallway lined with wood. A wide room opens up before me with bright sun. Light pours from the far wall, from a bay window. A round table of wood sits just beneath the light. Opposite it, multiple cupboards line the walls. They're heavy with jars. Strange jars—but my vision is blurry. Tears threaten to fall and I hang my head.
She sits me down at the round table. Four chairs, I count. A small place. Tall. Cupboards jut across from me—holding the strange jars. Jars with strange energies. They're little balls of black light wearing thin veils that end in a tail. The tails dance as if someone's blowing on them. Are they magic? I wonder. Could a person capture magic?
I had never seen anything like it.
I stare at the jars. The tears disappear as my eyes follow the bouncy movement of the little balls. Some of them swish around in their jars—like dancing fish.
The redhead walks towards the cupboards opposite me. The bloodied knife falls to the counter with a
clang
before she pulls out two cups and leaves them. Moves away to handle an oval shaped jug that's larger than her head. Opens its lid with a sigh and pours something gray into the cups.
Drops of gray splash upon the counter as her hands tremble slightly. “Plum wine.” she murmurs. Halfway gazes over her shoulder. “This'll help your nerves—and mine.”
Softly—silently, I watch a sliding door crack slightly open towards my left. Opposite the redhead. Opposite the cupboards.
She approaches the table and places two porcelain cups before me. Moves to scrape a chair out for herself and sits next to me. She offers a hand. “Akane Kokoros.” Akane smiles, but I hesitate. I look down at her hand. “I run a shelter here. First and—
probably last—
of it's kind. Women only.” her grin widens. I take her hand. I shake it.
What luck.
“Naia.” I tell her. My lips mimic her grin.
“
Naia.”
Akane nods, red hair tumbles down thin shoulders. The green of her long tunic mingles with red. “You'll be at home here. And if Kapua comes knocking, we'll stand for you. You'll never have to go back there again, you hear me?” she clasps my hands within her own. Her palms are warm. Welcoming.
I realize that my jaw is shaking—my teeth chattering silently against each other—and I calm myself. I let my hands melt into her embrace.
Should I tell her I'm not a brothel girl? Should I keep quiet?
Did it matter?
I slide my hands away from her grasp. I place them in my lap. “Thank you, Miss Kokoros—truly. But I am actually—,”
“—a songstress?” asks a smooth voice. Heels click upon the tiles of the floor and I look up. Gentle purple eyes meet my gaze, they are carved into a diamond like face. “I remember you.” she says. Her voice is calming and still, like the untouched surface of a lake. Her eyes are unnerving—unnatural. “Naia…I heard you murmur it, but I never believed the Orthella would let you go. Your voice is magical…but your zither…” she holds up its two pieces, prostrate against the velveteen of her plum gown. “…it's broken.”
The tears come again—but they do not fall.
I nod. Unable to speak.
“It's good you came to Kokoros. It's very good.” she coos. Inclines her head. Bows it. “Your voice is what inspired me to leave the Saints. One night, the wind guided your song to my window—giving me strength. I'm glad you didn't take my route. I'm glad you found us—but very sorry you're here.” In a single, graceful, movement she bows from her torso. Silver tinged locks of sable are parted down her shoulders. “I'll leave you to it, miss.”
When she turns on her heel to leave, she takes my broken zither with her before disappearing behind the sliding paper door across from the cupboards with a soft
click.
Footsteps tap stairs, and I listen.
I wonder what she's going to do with my zither. My poor broken zither.
I wonder at what my voice did for her. My song.
I wonder which song gave her the strength to run—maybe I could sing that to myself to get rid of this feeling. This feeling of helplessness mixed with betrayal. This hurt.
I can't blame Althea, nor Hana. The only person I have to blame is myself.
If only I'd tried to come out as a full-fledged songstress earlier. If only the string of my zither hadn't broken that night. If only…
Akane pulls me from my thoughts, “You and Shanti know each other, then?” When I nod, she taps a finger upon her chin. “So, your stories are similar?”
“Yes.”
“Then Kapua won't be coming for you?”
“My home is the Orthella. That is where I come from.”
Where I belong.
Her face falls. “Oh, well—you'll still fit nicely here. But you'll need to earn your keep like the others. And—,” Akane gazes into my face. She brushes a stray hair from my cheek, her smile sad. “—today, just rest. It looks like times have been hard for you, Naia. Go find Shanti and she'll lead you to bed.”
Though the sun has only recently risen, I feel as if night has already fallen. I feel as if I have been awake for several days—my sleep stolen. Misfortune has robbed me of my vitality. My youth.
And so, I do as she instructs. I move through the small parlor—eyes glazed, heavy. Heart aching. I find the cupboards and the quiet paper door. When I apply gentle pressure, it opens for me with a
hiss
. I am met by a pathway of stairs that reach high into darkness.
At the top of the staircase, I hear a door
hiss
as it is slid open. Floorboards moan at the soft
swish
of the stockings upon feet as I climb the stairs. When I make it to the second floor, a hand reaches for my own. When the hand pulls me up, I imagine I'm looking into Lore's calm face. Full of love. Affection. Free of drink. But it's Shanti—and it's almost as if she can sense my presence, just like Lore could. Gently, she clasps my hand within her own and pulls me into a hallway. She takes a right.
Two wide sliding doors are cut into oaken walls. From the back of the hallway, a window opens halfway. It is a sleepy eye where white light pours, littering the shiny floor of the small hallway. I hear the hard thump of carriages outside. I catch a whiff of spring, the gentle scent of flowers on a wind made humid with the promise of rain.
I want to go home.
Shanti leads me to a door to her right. Slides it open gently. It hisses.
The room is only slightly bigger than my room at the Orthella. She has already laid out a mat for me, and it lays parallel to her own which is decorated with plush pillows. All purple or plum. Between these mats sits a little table that is low to the ground. On top of it sits stationary. A brush and an ink pot. Behind this, a large window is closed with thick blinds of flax.
Shanti gifts me one of her pillows, along with an overdress of lavender which she folds and lays down beside my mat before she leaves the room. Leaving me alone.
I lay myself down, head propped upon the pillow. It smells of goosedown and I breathe it in.
It smells like strangeness. Like a home that is not my own.
I hear loud chatter in the streets. Merchants calling. A bell—
ding-dong! Ding-dong!
I close my eyes.
Girlish laughter erupts from outside my door.
I snap my eyes open—thinking it's Lore and the others. Thinking I'm home.
But the voices are foreign. The chatter is benign.
I am not home.
And I begin to fear that I never will be.
…
I have barely slept when Shanti shakes me awake—her arms heavy with plump bags full of pastel colored fabrics.
“You're to help me.” she smiles.
I throw on the lavender gown above my shift in a daze. When she drops the bags with a sigh, I quickly scoop them up.
As Shanti smiles, purple eyes narrow. “Are you sure you can carry all that?” she asks with a slightly cocked head.
I nod—determined to help. Determined to earn my place here—the tears of yesterday gone for the moment. “I'll be okay.” I murmur, barely believing myself as the bags of fabric pull heavily at my arms. “Where do you want these?”
She claps suddenly. A single sound. A
rap
that bursts from the center of her clasped hands. “I'm so lucky to have a helper!” She says, her smile wide as she crosses the room, leading me out. “Do you remember how I used to sew for the girls—back at the Orthella?”
“I was young when you left.”
Far too young to remember much.
The hallway is dark. Behind me, the window which oozed light just the day before is shut tight. Flaxen blinds covering it. Blinding it.
Shanti gazes over her shoulder, her violet eye crinkles at its corner. “Then you're in for a treat.”
…
In a rush of purple fabric, Shanti leads me through the parlor from yesterday. Her strides are long and graceful, her height emphasized when she crosses the parlor in three quick steps. I jog to keep up—my arms heavy and aching from the weight of the bloated bags. She waits for me by the green door I entered yesterday, and when I finally approach her, she throws the door open. Smells the morning air with a sigh. Lifts her hands to the sky and takes a sharp right.
The alleyway is tight and dark. When I look over my shoulder, brown splinters still litter the ground where my zither broke and the man collapsed—bleeding. The blood has disappeared now, but the splinters still remain. And I wonder if I'll ever make music again as my tongue glues itself to the roof of my mouth. I wonder if I'll ever sing.
Farther down the corridor, Shanti slightly raises her hand and waves before she opens a burgundy door and disappears behind it. I follow, shoulders up to my ears as my fingers burn with pain.
I enter a cozy brown room with a stone floor. To my left, the skeleton of a staircase rises to an open second floor and a breezy archway. On the ground floor, a large wooden loom opens its gaping mouth before me—the threads like tiny teeth as Shanti slowly strums them. She plucks at a snare and hisses when the thing bites back. Leaning upon the right wall is a table overflowing with beautiful fabric, and I move to set the bags near there. Dust rolls from the floor when I set the bags down. With my hands on my knees, I cough. I choke and go silent. Shanti listens when I gasp at a single length of fabric.
With uncertain fingers, I reach for the fabric. Hold it up to the ceiling. My eyes follow swirls that seem to move. Seem to breathe. Like the eye of a tornado—swirling and swirling, only to stop. Only to reverse direction and blow sparkling dust across the length of the bright fabric.
“Magic.” I murmur. “Is it magic?”
“Do you remember now?”
I shake my head. “You're a sorceress?” I ask her, mystified. Taken aback. East of Felicity sat the Arden Vale—the only place that accepted the rare magical gifts some women had. They were a select few that populated a whole nation. But beyond the Vale, many people were overbearingly superstitious of magic—unsure of what they couldn't understand. The Orthella's patrons often spoke of that place with malice—they hissed that the sun and moon did not exist there because the Vale turned its back on Order. Therefore condemning the Fates—the gods.
I did not know sorceresses existed past the Vale.
I can't bring myself to look at her—I've never seen anything like this. First the jars littering Akane's parlor, and now this? I began to wonder if all the women living here had some sort of talent. Some sort of magical power.
And then, there was me. Without my zither—
what was I?
What talent did I possess?
Gently, Shanti slides the fabric from my grasp—which has become sweaty. I knead my fingers against my thumbs in an attempt to make them dry. In an attempt to throw away my worries—but this only makes them worse.
What was I?
Shanti smiles at her work, admiring it with glowing eyes. “Does this bring back memories?”
But I've gone deaf to her words. I look around the room and realize that this table isn't the only thing in desperate need of cleaning. My eyes fall to that enormous loom and I feel a shiver ripple up my spine. Creeping—creeping like a snake. I can't operate that thing—though the strings remind me of my zither—maybe I could make noise on it, but I couldn't craft fabric from that as Shanti has. But around it, I notice piles of ripped threads. An archway opens up beside the loom, and I notice a gnarled stick attached to a brittle broom.
I may not be able to do much—but I can clean. I can help her get this place in order and then—and then…
I race for the broom as if it plans to run. I grasp it by the handle. Bringing it over to the overflowing table, I begin to sweep the fabrics that have fallen upon the floor and push them beside the wall. I think to separate them once they're out of the walkway. I think to place them into neat little piles once I'm done moving them.
Shanti nods. Moves to sit down at her loom and begins moving thread pieces down towards her lap as she quietly weaves a pattern trimmed with gold.
