Field Of Rubies (2) The people use the gold of the flowers to trade with other dynasties and to create beautiful things, healing powders, and other magics. Each family pays annual tribute by offering some precious gift crafted from the precious gold. The previous Quelda and her husband, those who ruled for a year, those whose reign must end with the coming of mine and Chalom's, walk onto the field behind the dragons. The Quelda shakes and sobs violently. Her tormenting cries wrench my heart, make me suddenly want to vomit. We sit so close her maddened eyes glitter vividly, like two suns blazing with a final, vehement flame before setting. She tries to run, but her husband—does anyone even know their names?—holds her back, holds her close to console or at least calm her enough to make the awful thing easy as possible. I want to close my eyes but am suddenly unable, knowing they deserve someone to watch, to share their last moments, someone who truly understands. And no one could possibly ever understand besides Chalom and I and those who've gone before. So, despite the hundreds gathered, some sorrowfully, some to enjoy the show, we are the only two left in their world. The golden fields sway, petals clinking together, almost singing. There is more than enough gold for all, both dragons and humans, enough to care for all of Sulaiman and many worlds besides. The Quelda and her husband are appointed. A new, young couple gets to share in this blessed ritual each year. Together they weave the goldenrods into fine things for all of Sulaimon. Together they are taught the ancient wisdoms of the Tynanian dragons, great magics and philosophies. Together they rejoice in their peaceful, pure joining of eternal love… But... The Coliseum is built, the old traditions give way to those both new yet hideously ancient. Shouldn't we be past such things, shouldn't someone try to stop this? The flowers die, drowned in the shedding of blood. At first, it is a subtle transition. The people hardly notice at first, hardly protest. But then— The next Quelda is forced to weave straw into gold to appease the dragons' unquenchable lust, greed, desire for more and more. The humans of Tynan themselves will not see, touch, or use any of the gold spun by the Quelda. They will be forced into poverty, struggling to survive. A pain of rage and hatred grips powerfully again as I remember being forced to stand before them. How they whispered words tainted with a lying softness, as if totally ignorant of the horrors they endowed that day. * * * "Our most blessed and beloved Quelda…" echoed the voice seemingly drenched with as white a sincerity as his bristling, snowy scales. But I knew those words shone black as his coal eyes. I knew their kindness was as frail as a morning's mist, easily dissolved with one, half-hearted kiss from the sun's palest glow. "We bequeath you, most sacred and pure treasure of our dynasty, with the greatest gift we can offer, the gift of our magic, our gold. May you transform Tynan with your beauty as those who have passed before you…" How could they utter such deceitfully calm words, as if, in bestowing a pathetically small portion of their power, they made every other terrible part of their plan acceptable? As if it stamped out the awfulness, as if a few shreds of gold could wipe clean a slate drenched with years of red? Then they breathed their tainted breath upon me, endowing their gift to spin straw into gold, a gift they are not deserving of. Because they deserve no gift beyond the horrors they now force upon this young couple, and, in a year's time—or less than that if we do not produce a child—Chalom and me. * * * I shake my head, vainly trying to erase the memories which cling as sharply to my heart as the dragons' claws digging into the earth, gleaming in the sun's mocking warmth. My aunt's story, or what is left of it, floats back into my mind… It is just as well though that none see the new gold spun by the Quelda—the sight of it would have broken their hearts. It is not nearly as gloriously pure as that grown in peaceful times. Now the gold, our lives, everything, is marred by the rubies. They lay the Quelda beside her husband, binding her because she writhes like someone possessed. And she is, not of a demon, but of terror, anguish, fear, unbearable torture, especially as the baby is laid between herself and her husband. Her screams slice like a thousand knives threatening to burst the heavens open with some vengeful storm. I tremble all over, contorting with each shriek, piercing blades slicing all over my body, searing my heart with each agonizing cry. Chalom squeezes my hand, but I am numb now except to her excruciating torture. Then the dragons bear down with bloodthirsty snarls, claws gleaming like cruel swords. They silence her and him as well, for even her husband loses his nerve in the end, crying out. The last awful sound is the baby's cry quieted too abruptly. And with their silence comes the storm, the rain of blood. The dragons of Tynan no longer require a sacrifice of gold. The Field of Sunlit Gold has become the Field of Rubies. * * * I lay in Chalom's arms. He drifts to sleep holding me close. I waver in and out of uneasy fits of slumber. I can't shake them from my mind—flashes of blood, ghost-like screams of unimaginable torture, dragons so mercilessly ripping the innocent bodies to shreds. I wish I hadn't watched or listened, rendered too stunned to look away. I would prefer suddenly going blind and deaf and wish my mind could turn numb to their pain. Unless I might witness the dragon's own pain, the pain I so strongly desire to see inflicted upon them. Over fifty years of torture catapulted right back at them. Only, if I have my way, they wouldn't be able to die so quickly. Make them endure all the suffering of each Quelda who has passed before… Perhaps such violent thoughts are no better than their own. Perhaps I think they should offer some comfort in this torture chamber they call a bedroom, but nothing helps. I look to the walls and see only the glowing red jewels crowning the Quelda's head in a skewed wreath, her snowy skin adorned with grotesquely shaped, crimson gems. I cannot imagine the dragon's torture, not here. And if I close my eyes, it is the same. There is only her, her probing eyes as she plunged into that bath of rubies… As I slip into yet another uneasy sleep, her eyes glitter, vividly staring straight at me and pleading with intense pain. As if my being the next Quelda somehow gives me a larger power than she herself bore in her own, short reign. As if I could somehow stop the dragons and spare her. Then, the dragon hovering over her swipes his long, gleaming claws towards her neck— The vision changes in a flash, so quickly my body flinches. Then I lie very still as if the approaching dreams want me to focus solely on them. And the visions come. At first I see myself racing through the fields of the mountains, twisting between rocky paths with my closest friends, laughing, skipping, chasing, and tagging each other. Chalom isn't there, but all is peaceful. I am with my friends. I am a child again. Then I see myself in Chalom's arms as if my spirit travels outside my body to hover over my sleeping self. The bed gradually fades until we lie on the softest, greenest grass. Or so it looks, but try as I might, I cannot reach out to touch it. My dream self, the one lying in Chalom's arms, looks up at me gravely then, eyes flashing sharply, determinedly, pleading to share some message. What ignites such intense passion? As her eyes scroll to the side, I follow her gaze. I take in a small gasp and stare. A third me runs laughing between tall, thin, brightly green fields illuminated with heavenly sunlight. A salty-sweet breeze wafts dreamily. My laugh dances lightly, care-free, as in the vision of my childhood. And behind me, laughing too, is a small child. She grasps at the folds of my white, almost fairy-like gown. I turn, scooping her up, holding her close, twirling her around then hugging her again, pressing her cheek against mine— The child looks at me. I suddenly want to cry. I suddenly can't breathe. I suddenly want to run to the child more than anything else in the world. Because her eyes are Chalom's—her curls my own. She is our child. Those eyes that are Chalom's gaze more vividly real than the eyes of any child I ever saw. I know she is real. Or she will be, if I heed the solemnly pleading spheres. They urge me to do something, anything, to spare her from her fate—allow her to become that real and even more real... The vision fades to black, and I gradually become aware of Chalom shaking me gently. "Crisilin? Crisilin, are you all right? What is it? Did you have another nightmare?" "I saw her." I want to sob yet am too breathless, too overcome, shaking too badly to even express that simple, human emotion. "I saw her, Chalom..." "Saw who, sweetheart?" "Our daughter, I saw our daughter..." "Ohh, sweetheart, shh...it's alright..." But it isn't alright—not anymore. It was never really alright, but I at least accepted the morbid thing for what it was, resigning myself to my fate not long after being chosen as the new Quelda. Before now. Before this needless—yet fearfully unstoppable—horror involves my Chalom. Before it involves the baby we will create together—my baby, our baby, our child. We had accepted our fate. Yet these reasons all suddenly make my fate, our fate, necessarily, possibly, and desperately stoppable. "I can't do this." I tremble as he holds me with such excruciatingly tense muscles it is hard to even shake with the sobs filling me, wanting so to grant release. "If it had been someone else...but I love you, Chalom. I can't let them kill us, kill our child—" "Then don't," said a woman firmly, and looking up, I gasp. "Aunt Simone?" The tall woman stands clad in a simple, purple robe, the hood thrown back to reveal sharp, set eyes and fashionably spiky though graying, blue-white hair. I wonder how long she's been here. Then I remember guards patroll every hour to make certain the Quelda and her husband are yet safe in their beds. "Yes, child, it is I." She moves to stand right next to our bed though she will not sit. A familiar, urgent glint in her eyes reveals deep anxiousness. "I come to you on my watch, for I have been considering what would be better—spending a year together loving each other, or risking your lives in escape only to have them end cruelly and even more prematurely than the Quelda's curse deems." "My good lady," Chalom says, eyes sparkling with sincere warmth and determination, "I assure you we would not want to live together for one more year this way. This is not the life we want. Even if we perish, the risk would be far worth it." He glances with searching eyes to ascertain I feel the same way—though his look doesn't really question. He knows me too well. "Very well." Aunt Simone's hushed voice floats swiftly. "I will take you from the palace grounds. But beyond that, I cannot lead you safely. You must travel on your own, from the city, down the mountain, and across the lake." Chalom blinks. "Tonight? So suddenly, without planning—even considering the circumstances, do you think that's wise?" My aunt draws a deep breath. "I do not know when my next watch will be. The dragons have so many servants it may be a long time before I am given another night watch. And by then, the dragons could have increased security, they could have moved you to a yet more secure room—there are any number of risks beyond escaping itself. Many other risks we cannot afford are possible." She and Chalom study one another long, as if debating, assuring one another. A flicker of fear—though not uncertainty—glimmers in the sapphire spheres I love so well. Then he breathed deeply, drawing himself up straight, nodding. "Very well then," my aunt says, "but we must hurry." Even as she speaks, Chalom scrambles from bed, and I hurry after. He helps me with my coat then begins pulling on thick, warm pants and boots. "And where will we go?" he asks. "Anywhere," she says. "Beyond Tynan's borders, they will not search for you. You will be considered tainted, and they will choose a new Quelda." My heart sickens at this thought. Our escape will mean others' deaths. Then, my aunt gives the last bit of hope I need to start out, "It may be if you seek the emperors of the other three dynasties, they may listen to you. You will be the only Quelda and her husband ever to survive and escape. Maybe they will listen if you tell them yourself of the horrors of Tynan. Maybe the next Quelda can be spared. Maybe there will be no more Quelda." No more Quelda. The words echo like a hopeful song. Sixty-six years have passed, sixty-six Queldas. Incredibly more than enough torment. If I can spare the sixty-seventh and assure there will not be a sixty-eighth... "But remember," my aunt says gravely, "you must pass beyond Tynan's borders. You must clear the Lake." My heart falls again. I am suddenly unaware of Chalom wrapping my legs in warm socks, leggings, and boots as this reality looms ever closer. The lake, miles wide, is the last stretch between us and freedom. And the deadliest. The water will be well below freezing now, and the patches of ice creeping towards its center could become less trustworthy as we traverse it. A desert of ice. Mountain cliffs rise up on either side of the lake's edges so there is no way around, only across. Chalom echoes my dread, "And how am I to get her safely across the lake? You know the stories of all those who perished years ago, trying to escape. Without a boat, it's impossible, and even more so in winter." "Then you must pray for a boat," my aunt says firmly, but her eyes glance skeptically, as if a part of her feels she's already sentenced us to our deaths. I look at Chalom's eyes, sincerely troubled, deeply concerned, though still determined. If we have to die, at least we should get to choose how. My aunt's expression softens as she studies first my face then Chalom's. "I have heard myths of sprites who guard the Ever-White Lake. Perhaps, if such tales be true, they will aid, guide, and protect you." I hope yet wonder why the sprites never tried to help anyone before now. She places both large, strong hands upon my cheeks and bends down to kiss my forehead. She looks deeply into my eyes, her own glossed with the haze of approaching old age yet filled with an ancient wisdom and love as she whispers, "Remember that Usamah, the Lion of the Heavens, is always watching you, my child. May He protect you, and may you keep His hope and courage in your heart. Usamah bless you, my child." I study her eyes a few moments longer until tears begin to creep into mine and hers both. The tears connect us always like unbreakable chains, no matter what tries to separate us. Then she forces herself away and says, "Come, we must hurry. Make no noise, and should we run into any human, bow your heads and feign normality." "And if we run into the dragons?" Chalom asks. She pauses before answering, "Pray that Usamah will be so merciful as to grant you invisibility." She casts him a final, grave look, and he nods. In his eyes, it is better to be sure of what will come, good or bad, than to bury oneself from the truth. Turning and casting a final glance at me, tying my scarf more securely and nodding satisfaction, Chalom takes my hand and we slip from the room after my aunt. We walk noiselessly, but I fear my heart pounds so ardently the keen dragons will certainly detect the sound of their precious Quelda betraying them, slipping between their claws into forbidden freedom. They will certainly sense the rich blood pulsing so vibrantly beneath my skin. But the halls remain surprisingly quiet, devoid of any signs of life besides our own presence. I expect loads of guards. After all, is the Quelda not sacred? Wouldn't they want to prevent our escape at all costs? Have years of terrorizing rule truly made them that careless? Then, I think of my aunt. It was her watch, she was meant to be my guard. I'd heard stories of guards physically fighting the Queldas they found outside their rooms, maddened by the thought of the Quelda escaping under their watch. What horror it would mean for her if my intensely beating heart truly trapped and brought us to our downfall. I shudder, not wanting to imagine what unimaginable consequences will befall her. After all, we escaped on her watch. Certainly, that was impossible without her helping us? But I force the thoughts from my mind. I cannot think them. My aunt will never be convinced to let us stay here now. I must focus on the task before us—what she gave us, not what they will take from her. Corridors, stair cases, all remain lifeless. Passing one of the tall, arched windows, we step around the betraying light of the moon. It is only half-full, but bright enough that our concealing cloaks will prove vain if we step under its glow. Chalom and I must be extra careful once outside. At last, we graced the bottom of a staircase where my aunt turns and whispers so faintly I can't even catch all the words. I snatch enough words to understand. We prepare to slip inside the outer wall of the outer courtyard. This is the one place where guards will definitely be stationed, marching along the top of the wall itself. We must be certain to make no noise. More silently than even before—save my beating heart which I still feel certain will echo up the walls to the guards' ears—we slip through the narrow passage, carefully turning a corner, walking further until my aunt stops. I burrow close to Chalom who holds me tightly. My aunt creeps slowly as a snail up to the wall. Then, so cautiously we can barely see her move—though at some point her body had shifted, head leaning over—she places her ear to the wall, listening. I wonder what she listens for until I hear the faint thump of footsteps overhead. They pass from my ears quickly, but still Simone listens, pressing close to the wall. After what seems an eternity, she draws back and motions us forward. She then points to a door set by the corner, eyes flashing urgently. I give her a longing look, wanting to hug her, tell her I love her, beg her to come with us, knowing I might never see her again. But any slight sound is now most dangerous, far too risky. Chalom draws me toward the door, opening it slowly and just enough for us to squeeze through. All the while, I look over my shoulder at my aunt who stands tall and proud, eyes pleading for my swift and safe escape. Tears betray her sadness in her aloneness, a fear we might not make it...and a hope that we will. Too soon, Chalom leads me from the wall. The door closes on her tormented face, suddenly small in the black shadows as she breathes, "I love you, child." I force the sob catching in my throat to remain silent as Chalom hurries me away from the wall, down the small hill toward the city. We must hurry because we are in plain view. The moon shines bright, following us like some tattle-tale intent on capturing and turning us in. We have to reach a hiding place before the guards reverse their patterns. Slipping around a building, hiding in its shadows, we look back. The guards have just turned, heading toward the corner we fled from— Wait! The guard's eyes, luminous like two, ghostly hollows, stare straight at me. Or do I just imagine he stares at me? I glance around. What else is there in this grey death of a city? The traitorous moon might catch the glint of our eyes and reveal us just as vividly as it does his eyes, I am sure of it. Chalom yanks me back as if sensing this same danger, and for a moment, I stand stunned. When I look up again, it is to catch the tip of the guard's cloak slipping from sight. Chalom glares hard at me then pulls me away, hurrying us into the city. For a few moments, my mind can rest and think more clearly. Most everyone should be safe in their homes. If anyone is about, we have to avoid them. No one likes the Quelda's sacrificial position, but some exist who would turn her in for extra food, clothing, or better shelter. I glance up at the statuesque but dilapidate stone houses. I wouldn't blame anyone who might do such a thing. But, unless we encounter such a person, we are safe until we reach the outer city wall. The top will surely be lined with guards, the final stretch illuminated by that wretched moon. As we slip down one of the narrow alleys, I freeze, gripping Chalom's hand so hard he is forced to stop beside me. I stare at her—a young woman, ragged rags pulled closely around her, cuddling in frail arms a small bundle, a sweet, sleeping thing, a baby, an infant. The moon reflects the infant's soft, blue skin, a breeze wafting the baby's scent to my nostrils. Lavender. The child is a girl. I watch as the mother gently snuggles the baby, singing a quiet lullaby broken by soft sobs. I know what she is going to do. Chalom knows too. He tries to pull me away. But, even as tears creep into my eyes, I feel compelled to watch. Watch as she lays the baby on the ground and gently drapes the swaddling over the infant's mouth, pressing...Only releasing the cloth and her sobs when certain the baby has taken her last breath. She looks up then, too sorrow-stricken to be shocked or horrified someone has seen her. No judgment shines from my eyes—only anger, hurt, pity, a longing to comfort this woman I cannot comfort. She has not killed the infant simply because she is too poor to care for her. Clearly, she loved the baby. This mother did what so many other fearful, helpless mothers did before her—sacrifice their firstborn child to spare her the possibility of being sacrificed as the future Quelda. Besides, isn't it worth it considering the filthy conditions and constant ridicule the dragons impose on all their people? Why force the child's innocence and beauty to be stripped away with such demeaning, and so pointlessly? Terrible as it is, watching that woman only renews my strength and confirms my desire to help my people, to bring this awful ritual to an end.
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Copyright © 2010 Christine E Schulze |