The Spark (6 page)

With a signal from the crone, the three men left the bathing chamber.

The elderly woman shuffled close to Katherine, and motioned for Belle to step closer
.
She looked the two up and down, taking in their covered shapes. With slow, hobbled steps, she circled the younger two women, always inspecting their bodies. The smell of onion, salt and the rotted scent of age filled Katherine’s nostrils as the crone came round again. Content with what she saw, the crone indicated for Katherine and Belle to remove their clothing.

Katherine’s heart lodged itself in her throat. She looked to Belle whose eyes were wide in fear. Agitated by the lack of action, the woman made the same indicating action. Not wanting to invoke any wrath, Katherine began to undress. First she unbuttoned her blouse, which she removed and let fall to the floor below. Katherine’s face flushed red as her heavy breasts became exposed to the world. Her nipples stiffened as the tingling kiss of air settled on her flesh.

The serene silence of the hall was broken with a sudden smack of flesh against flesh. Katherine snapped her head to the noise and saw Belle holding her cheek, which was reddening under her hand. Katherine was surprised to see Belle still fully clothed.

“Belle, we need to go along with their…” Katherine began to say before being greeted by a smack of her own. Tears welled in both Katherine’s eyes as the fresh pain caused a searing in the base of her skull. The crone glared at the pair, indicating with her gnarled hands there will be no talking and that the two will undress.

Katherine took a deep breath and continued with the removal of her skirts. She found it uncomfortable pulling the ruby garment down in front of such a scrutinizing audience as this woman. Katherine found it even more disconcerting as she slid her small clothes off, revealing the whole of her body.

Embarrassed, Katherine tried to cover the coarse hair between her thighs, but the crone slapped them away. Katherine’s womanly secret was open for all to see. She tried to burry her pride with a deep swallow. She looked to Belle again, perhaps for comfort. In some ways, Katherine was glad to see the younger woman standing as exposed as herself.

The crone smiled with the pair’s compliance. She reached for Katherine and Belle’s wrist and directed them to their next station. They were led past the waiting waters to a congregation of robed women. The group parted to let the newcomers through. Beyond the wall of bodies lay a low stone table with carved effigies of merfolk and sea daemons. At its base sat a pile of coarse hair of varying shades of brown and black. One of the crones motioned for her to lie on the table. Katherine obliged, despite her fear, for she knew refusal would only result in another blow.

The table was slick with condensed moisture and was surprisingly warm to the touch. Katherine sat first, letting her bare buttocks lead the way. Next she tried her best to gracefully swing her legs to the waiting slab. With a deep breath to calm her nerves, Katherine lowered herself onto the stone. With great effort she tried to see what was happening, and caught a glimpse of two women approaching; one wielding a pair of shears and the other brandishing a single edged razor which shone devilishly in the glowing light of the bathing chamber. Panic raced in Katherine’s heart as the sharp objects came near. Strong, calloused hands gripped at either of her wrists, while others forced her thighs open. Katherine looked about wildly at the robed women, horror stricken as the one with the shears stood above her. Katherine’s breath came in uncontrollable succession. As the shining blades came closer, Katherine shut her eyes, not wanting to see what was going to happen to her body. The cold kiss of the rough blades touched her mound and Katherine waited for the pang of injury.

The sound of a coarse substance being snipped greeted her panicked ears. Katherine realized the women weren’t going to hurt her, but rather shame her by removing her woman’s hair. Katherine was able to breathe easier knowing she would not be harmed.

Within quick moments, the shears were removed and the razor-wielding crone set to work. It was her job to shave away the remaining hair, leaving bare flesh in its wake. It was a strange sensation, having such a secret part of herself exposed. As humiliating as it was, Katherine was thanked Del Morte for his grace and not letting harm befall her.

Once the shaving was complete, the crones helped Katherine to her feet. One of the women, who did not seem as bent and crooked as the rest, led her to the steaming waters of the bath. Katherine looked back to the stone table just as Belle laid herself upon its surface, waiting to receive her own trimming.

After the shavings and cleansing in the waters, both Katherine and Belle were led back to their cell by the crone who initially inspected them. It came as a surprise to Katherine when they were denied any garment for warmth as they made their way through the dark maze. The tunnels seemed much colder now than before. Katherine hugged herself tightly, trying to maintain the diminishing warmth of the bath as they wound their way back to the dank cell.

“You must understand lovelies,” the crone’s voice cracked as they continued through the corridors. Despite its roughness from age, the woman’s voice proved to be a welcome change to the silence. “We all play a vital part in the greater plan and must all do what is necessary.”

“What is the greater plan?” Katherine asked, curious to know what was going to happen to her and Belle.

“Oh, don’t you lovelies worry about that now.” The woman smiled kindly, exposing a single tooth tangling by its root. The way she smiled gave Katherine an uneasy feeling. “Just know our great and glorious leader, Syrah, is a very smart man. His plan is our future, and our plan needs you.”

The rest of the trek back to the cell passed in silence. Katherine racked her brain through aching pain, for she knew the name Syrah had somehow played a big part in her history. It greatly bothered her that she could not think of how she knew the name Syrah. Katherine did not doubt whatever injury plagued her skull was somehow preventing her memory from working properly. Yet still she considered the name, trying to apply it to as few faces she could remember
.
Ultimately she gave up, letting the throbbing in her head to rest a little.

They reached their small little abode, which sat as dark and dank as it had before the wonderfully lit, yet socially awkward, bathing chamber. The crone, who continued to smile, held the cell door open.

“Come lovelies.” She said. “Night awaits.”

Katherine sighed. She dragged her feet, returning to the musty darkness once more.

“We don’t want you to go and get a chill now.” The crone said, withdrawing two small rough spun covers from beneath the folds of her robes. She handed the coverings to the waiting women and, with a final smile, pulled the heavy door shut; darkness consumed their world once more.

Katherine fumbled around, searching for her little spot she would know as her bed. Upon finding it, she realized the straw had been replaced with a fresh layer. Wrapping herself with her little blanket, Katherine lay atop the scratchy surface. It did not take long for sleep to find her.

As she slept, Katherine was plagued by images of a man with a peculiar sort of lenses. They made love. They fought and talked and they made love again. Without much warning an apparition of a child appeared. It stood behind the man, always looking at Katherine with a deep sadness behind big abyssal eyes. Katherine was reminded of herself as the specter’s face held a familiar softness while retaining the features of the man's face. The child did not remain long, drifting back into obscurity.

Katherine was wakened several hours later by the screeching sound of the cell door opening and closing. Even though she could not see, she could sense there were several strangers in the room. The shuffling sound of an approaching figure caused her to sit up. There was a clacking of teeth and an awful smell, like that of ale that has been left out to rot.

“It’s time fer ye t’ play yer part.” The familiar voice of the bald headed man said, touching Katherine’s knee. She could not see him, but she got the sense the man was smiling at her with a hunger in his hidden eyes.

Suddenly, Belle screamed. She was quickly muffled by a resounding smack. Her whimpering filled the cell as she reeled from the hit. Katherine struggled to look past the shadow of the guard, to check on her cellmate. Katherine did not need to see what was happening, for a methodical, and wet, skin-on-skin sound began to mingle with the other woman’s sobs.

The hand on Katherine’s knee travelled down towards her newly exposed mound, but stopped short of the outermost lips.

“I bet ye look mighty fine down there.” Hints of desire laced the bald man’s tones as he kept his fingers at bay. “Mighty fine indeed.”

His rough hands continued, touching the outermost portion of her lower lips. Katherine’s heart raced, afraid of what was to come.

“I will make a real woman o’ ye.” He said, shoving his finger inside of her. Silent tears ran down Katherine’s cheeks as his calloused finger violated her again and again.

“But not yet,” with a mocking tone the man removed his finger and consumed her juices. “No we’ve got t’ follow th’ plan. And tonight, the plan is fer yer lil friend.”

The sound of his snickering faded as he stood and left Katherine sitting on her straw bed, tears running free down her cheeks. She spent the rest of the night hugging her knees, listening to her captors take their turns mounting Belle; Katherine sat silently as Belle was taken again, and again. By the time the men had left, Belle lay limp and silent.

When Katherine felt it was safe to move, she shuffled over to the younger woman. She lay next to the younger woman, pulling her close in a comforting embrace. Belle broke into wild and uncontrollable weeping by the kindness of Katherine’s act. Katherine stroked the poor girl’s hair, and rocked Belle back and forth gently, doing her best to comfort her despite the overwhelming stench of the men’s seed. It didn’t take long for Belle to drift asleep in Katherine’s arms, clearly exhausted from the evening’s torture.

After at least an hour, Katherine felt the strangling pain in her skull return, beckoning her to sleep. At first, she tried to fight the temptation, fearful of unwanted visitors. She vowed none of them would take her, or Belle, while they slept. As Katherine fought the urge to sleep, the apparitions of the man and child from her earlier dream filtered into her reality. The two stood across from her, watching, waiting; begging her to join them in the realm of dreams.

H
is parents never used to bicker the way they did of late. The major root of their issues always fell on money, and, subsequently, his father’s knack for not having more of it. Being a salt-family of Malefosse, the Seyblancs were not known for having much in terms of finances, but, typically his father earned enough to keep a roof over their heads – which was more than what many salters could claim; however, with the recent wave of strange warm weather, the Seyblancs and the other salt-families of Malefosse, were finding themselves hard pressed for work.

Marcus heard talk in the streets about droughts in Valvius, snows on Driftwood Isle, even flooding in some of the far southern provinces. The real talk of the town, though, was the strange warmth Syntar had been blessed with. Or plagued by, depending whom you asked. Everyone had been jubilant at first, but as reality began to sink in, it became clear to the poor salt-kin they were headed for a dark time.

Typically, the salt-families were those born into destitution in the over-populated province and oft were employed to maintain the roadways for the nobility. Marcus’ father had been a chief salter in the northern district of Malefosse, the province’s capital city. He had been responsible for the upkeep of the district’s antique steam powered salt-golems, the scheduling of the shoveling crews, and other such duties befit a man of his station. His father’s income had grown too a point where he could afford a modest, but small, home in the lower east-side district; in a rare feat, his father had purchased a dwelling on the fringes of salter society.

Now with the heat melting the snows and ice of the northern province, his father had been asked to not return to work until such a point where he would be needed. This meant the income was now lost and the Seyblanc family teetered on the brink of losing everything. Marcus knew his mum refused to return to the boarding houses where the threat of rape, murder and theft were very real. Marcus knew his mother felt secure in their little home.

Marcus turned onto his side, letting the morning light rain on him. Cursing the sun’s warm tendrils, Marcus rose from his worn cot. He stretched his cramped toes upon the floorboards, and addressed the issue that was his mussy brown hair. Once the mop fell into a position he could live with, Marcus set about getting dressed. He laced his salt-stained breeches as the bitter bickering of his parents drifted up through the floor. He shook his head, frustrated for having to begin his day in such a way as he donned a sweat stained linen shirt. He rolled the stiff sleeves over his bony elbows and gave his hair one final tease. Content with his attire, Marcus descended to the waiting aggression.

“I’m tellin’ you Jocelyn, no man from no police – secret or othe’wise is going t’ take our home.” The tired voice of his father said as Marcus entered the small, but manageable, dining room. Marcus’ father wasn’t a big man. He sat at their eating table, thin, old, and bald. At this moment he was on the verge of defeat. The years had not been kind to Gerold Seyblanc.

“You say this Gerold, ye do e’ry time.” Marcus’ mother Jocelyn, protested. She leaned on their wooden table as she spoke down to Marcus’ father. “But what ‘bout when the rest of our money is gone? What then? You say no police is goin’ t’ take me home, but who’s that hangin’ on the bell all day when yer not here?”

In some ways, Marcus felt sorry for his mother, for she had been born into nothing and rose to mediocrity through her marriage to a chief salter. Now she risked to fall back to the life she never wished to return. As his father’s money grew, so too did his mother’s ego and eccentricities.

If Marcus had not known the wiser, he would have claimed it was his mother who ruined the family’s income for she had grown quite found of
maquillage
. This was a lavish, noble product women painted on their faces to ‘enhance’ their features; red paints were used to create luscious lips, rose coloured powders to mimic a maid’s blushing cheeks, and even a product to paint the eye lids. Beneath crusted layers of
maquillage
, his mother’s skin had become porous and distressed. With the loss of his father’s work, she had not been able to continue with her façade, and she refused to wash the last remaining flakes from her skin because she could not replenish her collection.

Across the table, his father looked a shriveled shrew as his mother seethed down upon him like vengeful Del Morte. Marcus felt a stirring defiance in his gut as he looked in pity at the man whom he admired.

“Mum, leave ‘im be.” Marcus said. The wrathful woman that was his mother turned her attention towards him. With slow, vengeful strides she rounded the table and hovered over her son.

“What did you say t’ me boy?” Her breath steamed hot and furious in his face, smelling of cloves and barley

“I said,” Marcus began, staring into his mothers brown eyes, whose lashes were caked with clumps of aged
maquillage
. “Leave ‘im be.”

Marcus hadn’t seen her hand dart out, but he certainly felt the force of the blow as his mother struck him. Tears welled in his eyes as he held his stinging cheek.

“See what ye’ve done to ‘im?” She snarled. “Ye see what puttin’ ‘im to work in the mines has done to me sweet lil boy, Gerold? Ye’ve gone an’ made ‘im an insolent bugger like the rest ‘o ye salt kin.” Turning her attention back to Marcus, she said, “Ye best mind yer tongue boy.”

“Or what?” Marcus clenched his jaw, waiting for the next blow to fall.

“Or ye will find yerself livin’ in the boardin’ houses right quick.” His mother threatened. “I’m yer moth’r an’ I deserve more respect than the two o’ ye give.”

“Son, thankee, but let it be,” his father squeaked from across the table. Marcus looked at his father, whose weepy green eyes refused to return the stare.

Marcus was surprised, hurt even. There once was a time Gerold Seyblanc would have fought even his own wife for the safety of his child. Where once sat a broad shouldered man of esteem and worth amongst the salt-kin, now only a defeated, worthless shell sat.

He couldn’t take it any more. Too long had Marcus sat idly by as his mother brought his father low; too long had Jocelyn Seyblanc ruined the sanctity of family for her own selfish desires. A fire burned in his heart, a fire, Marcus knew, that would no doubt end only in his pain.

“No.” Marcus winced as his struck again. Through the burning pain in his cheek, Marcus managed a defiant grin. “M’ father worked hard fer us. He worked long hours t’ keep this house. An’ what did ye do mum when he went off t’ toil with them salt golems?” He paused, letting his words weigh in the air like an unwanted scent.

“That’s right, I nearly gone an’ forgot what you did mum.” Venom tripped with each word Marcus said. “Ye went and spent ‘is hard earned wages on yer face paint t’ make yerself look like some Valvian whore!”

The blow was stronger than Marcus anticipated. It sent him reeling in the chair, causing it to topple. Blood filled his mouth like a vile ichor as he lay sprawled on the floor.

“Now ye lissen here.” His mother hissed. “I don’t know where this is comin’ from, but ye best be damn sure t’ smarten yer attitude fer t’night.” She looked across at his father, then back down at Marcus. “We ‘ave important guests comin’ fer dinner an’ I want no trouble.” His mother raised her head as a noble woman might and scuttled from the room.

Marcus rubbed his cheek and chin, trying to massage away the discomfort and pain from his mother’s blows. Tears lingered in his eyes, and the defiant adrenaline began to recede.

“What’s happened t’ her father?” Marcus asked, pulling himself off the floor.

“I wish I knew lad,” his father replied rubbing his bald pate. “But yer instigatin’ her ain’t gonna help any.” He smiled at Marcus. “But thankee, son. It seems I’ve gone and got old. Lost the nerve t’ really have a go with her. Ye know she weren’t always this way. She used t’ be a lady proper, jus’ born the wrong side o’ life. This is hard fer her no doubt. It’s hard fer us all.”

Marcus did not doubt the recent warm weather and the affects it held over the salt families of Malefosse added to his mother’s woes. Yet there was something deeper troubling his mother, something he could not quite place
.
Marcus walked over and gave his father a pat on the shoulder. With a heavy heart, he looked down at his withered father.

“Let’s go t’ the alehouse.” Marcus suggested. “Drinks on me.”

“Would that I could, Marcus.” His smiled. “But I best stay here an’ make sure the missus don’t do nothin’ stupid.” His old man sighed, rubbing his pale scalp again. “Perhaps ye should go t’ the bathhouse. Freshen up a tad t’ please her fer her thrice damned dinner.”

“Aye” Marcus agreed. “But not fer her. Fer ye.” Marcus patted his father’s shoulder, before taking his leave of the small dining room.

Marcus entered the front foyer and set to lacing his well-worn, salt-stained leather boots. Marcus stamped both his feet on the creaky floorboards to ensure the fit of the boots would be comfortable for a day of walking. Satisfied with their feel, he reached for the door handle and exited to the bustling alleys of Malefosse.

The air was rich with the scent of grime, salt, and stagnant puddles. It wasn’t a welcoming aroma, though it was a step above the stuffy, stale air within Marcus’ home. The sky burned bright blue with the first formations of fluffy white clouds. Change was a strange idea for Marcus, but, somehow, he did not mind the favourable weather. The kiss of the sun seemed to give him strength and courage. Even the idleness of the day had allowed Marcus to discover he had a penchant of deep mechanical curiosity.

There were many times of late when Marcus found himself sitting in
Oximande’s Shop of Intriguing Ingenuity
in the rich part of town, pouring over the various texts and schematics housed within. Marcus had even been so bold to inquire after an internship so he could put the various theories and designs to test. Not to his surprise, the shop owner declined, for he would not be seen with a salter under his tutelage. It was a common occurrence in Malefosse, so the rejection had not bothered Marcus so much. Marcus still visited the shop every now and then, always curious to see the latest designs or prototypes.

Today, however, he walked aimlessly. He listened to the idle gossip of the younger salt-children and banter of the dregs that were too poor to even find a place amongst the boarding houses. He cursed the nobility that shoved past and chatted with a group of working pleasure girls. It was much the same routine Marcus had come to enjoy in the fair weather.

Along this daily route Marcus would pass everflame street lamps wrought in the poorest iron possible. In recent days, posters and flyers had begun to find their way onto the metal poles. Despite passing them signage every morn and every eve, Marcus had never found the time, nor desire, to read the adverts. He did not doubt it was some whimsical ploy of the nobility to deprive the salters of even more of their pay.

As he walked past one such flyer, Marcus gave it proper consideration. He was in no rush for the baths, nor for the alehouse. His day was free and open.
He took the few short steps to stand next to the post. When he was sure no one was around, or looking, he lifted an encroaching corner to read the message.

The world is changing. Wynne stands on the cusp of a greatness she has never known. We need brave, strong, dependable citizens of our glorious province for training and service to lead the dawn of this new, golden age. The pay is modest, but the benefits of seeing our world rise from the ashes of poverty and class is far more than any could ask. Any man or woman is welcome, as long as you are willing to do what is neccessary. Come to 6966 Culper Row in the East District of Malefosse if you wish to know more.

“Marcus you ol’ scoundrel!” A familiar voice rang out over the din of the street urchins. Marcus turned as his closest friend approached.

Gionni Visconi was of an age with Marcus, both born during one of the worst winter storms to have hit Malefosse. They had met as junior salters before Marcus was sent to the salt mines and Gionni to the manufactorum district. One could not find a pair of friends any more night and day, and perhaps that is what helped the two boys bond so well. Where Marcus was gaunt and grim, Gionni was muscled and always smiling. Marcus was known for his grungy brown hair, while Gionni wooed the women with his refined blonde locks.

Marcus’ friend had always been well dressed, but today he wore a dashing, simple, black waistcoat with an embroidered gold gear upon his breast. Gionni’s boots shone sleek and proud as they caught the morning light. Even the black breeches he wore seemed to enjoy the sun. The pair clasped wrists and smiled at each other.

“Where did ye get that kind o’ get up?” Marcus laughed. “Ye look like yer off t’ war or somethin’.”

“You mean this?” Now it was Gionni who laughed. “It’s standard fare for the Order.” He turned in a slow circle to show off the entire ensemble.

“The Order?” Marcus raised an eyebrow.

“Aye, they’re the ones behind these posters,” Gionni indicated to the advert Marcus had been reading. “I tell you Marcus, joinin’ with them was the best thing I could have done.”

“Really?” Marcus asked. “Why?”

“I’m not s’posed to say out in the streets, but let me say this,” Gionni lowered his voice, leaning in close so Marcus could hear. “The pay alone is worth it. I make more now as an initiate than I ever did in the manufactorum, or as a salter.”