Chapter Ten

Sunlight filtered through the tree limbs, warming the orchard. Twittering birds awakened her. Raising her arms above her head, she stretched. She threw the blanket aside and sat up. Her head throbbed while looking to see if breakfast was ready. The fire was out. A cloth bundle lay near it. Quickly, she looked toward his bed. He was gone.

Sun rays warmed her naked skin. It feels good to feel the heat on my naked body. It will help … it to … I’m naked! “Where is my tunic?” Spying her torn, bloody tunic, she jerked it off the ground. “He didn’t take me without a fight.” Her eyes fell on the broken tree limbs. Focusing on the thorns, she looked at her hands and arms. “The filthy animal forced me into the brambles. I’m going to kill him. He tore my trousers. No man rapes me and lives to brag about it.” Seeing his tunic on the bed, she sneered and growled, “Watermelon, you are a dead man.”

She stood, jerked his tunic off the bed, and slipped it over her head. Gorga was lying under it. Her tongue lolled out of her head. A skin pouch lay beside her. A small piece of parchment with writing on it was attached to it. Curious, she read the note. It simply said, “to use the ointment for the burning and itching.”

“The idiot leaves an oversized tunic, salve, and a drunken snake for services rendered. Watermelon man, the only itch I have is to kill you. She threw the pouch as hard as she could. It landed on the ground and rolled under a tree. Angrily, she went to the dead fire, sat it down, and opened the bundle.

Juicy, fragrant liquid ran over her hands. Perfectly cooked pork filled the cloth. She ate it all. Chewing the pig, she tried to figure out where her rapist went. “He said he was going to the Gorge, but which route will he take? No matter, I’ll catch him with the horse. Wait until I catch him.”

She dried her hands on the short, dried grass. “He took me to his bed.” She fumed as she gazed at his bedroll. “The snake stole my bedroll. That lousy thief is going to … owooo!” she screamed.

She jerked open the neck of his shirt. She looked diligently for the offending insect and saw nothing. She rubbed the offending spot on her chest. Hot, searing pain covered her body. Jumping and screaming, she spun in circles, looking for a yellow jacket’s nest. The burning, stinging pain began on the soles of her feet and terminated on her scalp. Krinna shed her clothes fast.

She sprinted to his bedroll. The skin was gone. “Oh god, what did I do with it? I threw it away. Beneath the tree! Where?” She didn’t remember which one she threw it under. Sobbing, she ran around until she saw it under a low-hanging limb. She threw herself on the grass. She scraped her naked breast, hoping to relieve the excruciating pain. It didn’t work. She finally reached it, avoiding all the hanging thorn limbs and the old broken branches littering the earth.

Hopping and jumping, she raced to the bed. She plopped her burning posterior down and opened the pouch. Scooping out a generous amount of salve, Krinna rubbed it on her feet and legs. A cold sensation covered her limbs. Standing, she smeared it on her body and scalp. Blessed relief came instantly. The fire remained under her bandages.

She grabbed her war bag, took a razor-sharp boot knife, and cut the bandages. “They better be healed,” she cried. Smoothing the salve on her stomach and sides, she tried to reach her back. She failed. She could think of nothing to apply the ointment to her back until her eyes fell on the inebriated serpent.

Without hesitation, she snatched her up by the head and smeared the healing ointment up and down her body. Throwing her limp body over her shoulder, she grabbed her tail and worked her well-lubricated, scaly body up and down the contours of her back. Cold, icy blessings ran up her spine, replacing the erupting volcanoes. The pain dissipated. Thankfully, she dropped the well-used, unconscious reptile on the ground. She screamed for joy. Sitting down, she wept profusely.

She ceased crying and looked warily at the Elple trees and their effective defense. “Bless you, Watermelon. You are still a dead man.”

She gathered the equipment and dressed. After saddling the horse, she hooked Gorga’s basket to the saddle. She grabbed the serpent by her unconscious tail and threw her on the closed basket lid.

Startled, Gorga extended her fangs. Krinna jerked her hand back as her head flew over the carrier’s lid and struck the horse’s rump. The fangs were buried deep. Her horse reared and fell sideways.

She couldn’t believe her luck. Ravaged, overheated, cruelly itched, and now afoot, it was almost more than she could bear. Between him and his stupid accomplice, they were sure to kill her. Now, beyond a doubt, she knew it was a conspiracy perpetrated by some god called Moron. She prayed they would all choke on their pleasure.

She rolled his bed cover and packed Gorga in it, leaving her head sticking out at the end. She then rolled it up and tied it onto her pack with the money bag. Adjusting the load on her shoulders, she left the orchard and ran northwest across the meadow of golden grass.

“If I hurry, I can make Sar’s by night.” Krinna picked up her pace and began jogging. She was thankful she kept her body toned with a good exercise routine, and nearly eight weeks had passed. She was tired but continued to run. Occasionally, she stepped into a hidden hole. It caused her ribs to throb. It couldn’t be helped.

She had to catch him to get her revenge and be paid for it. Perhaps Sar could give her some information. She had married a soldier from the invading Southern army fifteen years earlier.

It doesn’t seem possible. Sar and I used to be the best of friends. She probably won’t recognize me. How many years did we play together? Not enough. Where has our youth gone? What have I become?

Krinna forced her melancholic thoughts aside and concentrated on the moment. Perhaps she could adopt a gentler approach when soliciting information. She didn’t want to manipulate a friend, and wisdom was better than deceit.

She ran out of a cedar thicket and observed a man plowing behind a yoke of oxen in a field. A young boy followed him. She waved, and the man returned her greeting. He stopped the team and spoke to the boy. She smiled as he ran toward a small stone house across the meadow. Krinna stopped and released Gorga in the shade of a large pine tree.

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The front door opened, and she ran into the yard. Sar, beautiful as ever and monstrously pregnant, stood framed in it. “By all that is holy,” she exclaimed. "Krinna? Is that you? Is it you? Girl, how are you doing?” She said and waddled to embrace her.

“I’m well, but look at you. How many months are you?” She touched her stomach and laughed.

“I’m nearly nine months. Please come into the house. Supper is nearly ready, and Kyber will be in from the field shortly.”

“Krinna, I have missed you. If you only knew how often I daydream about our youth, you would think I never grew up.”

“I, too, think of those days. I envy you and your life. You appear to be very happy.”

Holding Krinna’s hand, she smiled and said, “Kyber is the greatest thing to happen to me. We are happy. We have three children and one on the way. Enough about me. Please tell me you have lived an adventurous life for both of us,” she said, allowing her to enter the house first.

She stepped into a medium-sized, well-tended living room. Everything was clean and in order. A large, typical stone fireplace filled one wall. The aroma of freshly baked bread permeated throughout the house. Her stomach reminded her it was empty. She wanted to rush right into the kitchen but restrained herself.

A young, blonde-haired boy with ample blue eyes stood quietly in a corner, staring at her. He was the one who ran from the field. Two blonde-haired girls wrestled and tumbled on the wood plank floor.

“Is she your long-lost friend, Mother?” he asked.

“Yes, son, she is,” she said, laughing. “Please go to the spring and bring in some cold milk, cheese, and butter.”

“Yes, mam,” he said with a smile and ran out the kitchen door.

“You have a well-mannered son,” Krinna said.

“He learned manners from his father. Come on, Krinny. Sit in the kitchen while I set the table and get the food on it.”

“Can I help you in any way?”

Sar stopped. Amazed, she stared at her. “Sister, do you realize how strange that sounds?”

“Please, forgive me. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”

“No, no, it is okay. You could never hurt my feelings. We are always the best of friends. Give it no further thought.”

The back door flew open. The boy carried a clay urn suspended on a rope handle. A small bowl of butter sat on top of its lid. He held a clean, cloth-wrapped bundle in his left hand. He set everything on the table and closed the back door. He stood quietly contemplating Krinna.

“You sure are pretty,” he said.

“Thank you, sir. You are a handsome young man.”

He addressed Sar and asked, “Mom, what does handsome mean?”

“She is saying you are pretty like a man.”

He blushed. “She said I look like a girl?”

“No, son, you are pretty like a man. You are rugged and handsome like your father. That is your kind of pretty. Look out and see if he has left the field.”

“He was feeding the oxen when I fetched the milk.”

“Good. Get water ready so he can wash up for supper.”

Krinna shuffled to one side as the girls tumbled into the kitchen. Their childish laughter stirred a long-dead emotion in her heart. She and Sar once ran and played together.

They were the bane of both families. When they were not playing, they spoke about the children each wanted. They revered motherhood, but derived the most pleasure from imitating pregnant women as they waddled down the narrow streets.

Giggling and laughing, they stuffed rags under their dresses and over their chests to be pregnant. Then, with great fanfare, they followed the pregnant women down the street. It was a wonderful pastime until her father caught sight of them.

Furiously, he punished her. Beaten with a leather strap, she was locked in a bare room for two months. She accepted his harsh actions and criticisms without complaining. He was her loving father. She loved him until the day he released her from his prison.

He took Sar away from her. Happy, laughing, fun-loving Sar was thrown out of her life. Her widowed mother was fired from her father’s employment and forced to move into the country. Her screaming tantrums and begging failed to melt his cold heart. She didn’t know when it happened, but it did. It was slower than the ages and faster than a speeding arrow. Somewhere in time, her youthful joy died a pitiful death. Sullen and reticent, she locked everyone out of her heart.

Her inappropriate attitude displeased him. Her position required a pleasant, yet hypocritical, smile to mask her personal feelings. To rectify the situation, he sent her to a private tutor to learn weaponry.

At the ripe old age of eight, she met her new weapons master. If laughter had lived in her, then she would have laughed hysterically. She once heard the expression “long in the tooth,” and now she knew what it meant.

He was an old, long-haired, half-blind ex-warrior from the southern kingdom. His accent labeled him. Multiple scars covered his arms and torso.

Vividly, she recalled her sneering voice when she asked, “If you are a master, then how did you get all those scars?”

He squinted his white film-covered eyes at her and gently replied, “Child, all the men who put them there are dead. Now, I can see that you don’t want to be here by the deadness in your eyes. Follow me.” He led her down a narrow hallway and stopped before a heavy wooden door. He opened it and said, “This is your room. When you want to learn the art of living, come and see me. I’ll be in the great room.”

He left her standing alone. She had felt miserable and deserted. Her friend was gone because they enjoyed a childish life in an overcrowded city. She was forced to endure punishment for being happy. She wasn’t wanted. She swore never to enjoy life again as she entered her small, cubbyhole-like space.

A bed, the only object in the hole, graced a wall behind the door. Its cover consisted of a single blanket. In disbelief, she stared at the complex, cold stone slab. Her pillow was a hand-carved piece of hardwood with a cutout section for the head. She yanked the blanket off the stone and threw it on the floor. Her young mind recoiled from the image she faced. “Where is my bed?” she moaned.

She spent hours lamenting the end of her life in the cold, unlit room. Unable to understand her father’s hatred toward her, she chose to be what he didn’t desire.

Leaving the solitary confinement of her stone dungeon, she strolled down a hallway, circling the great room. Large observation windows were cut into three of its walls. She walked around the opposite side until she found a stone bench under a portal. Climbing up, she watched the master shoot arrows into a tiny target. He stood one hundred feet from the target. Every shaft hit the painted bull’s eye.

Without fear, she climbed into the opening and jumped onto the flagstone floor. Boldly walking with a predetermined purpose, she stopped before the target board and faced the master. In a lifeless voice, she said, “Kill me.”

Krinna would never forget the moment. Without hesitation, he knocked an arrow and fired. She felt its whisper as it tickled her right ear. The second one tickled her left one.

The third shaft penetrated the board between her skinny legs. She felt the dress material pull tight into her groin. She didn’t flinch.

He placed the fine-grain, yew wood bow on a rack and retrieved a javelin. Turning away from her, he jerked around, and with one smooth motion, he threw it. It quivered in the board between her thighs. She refused to look down.

Her dead eyes watched him pick up the battle axe. Its blade stuck in the board above her head. The handle lay before her eyes. Next, he threw the knives. One landed on each side of her head with the blades pointing up.

He stopped and admired his handiwork. She waited. “By all that is holy,” he exclaimed, “you have courage.”

Krinna moved away from the board. Her dress ripped as she walked off the end of the weapon. Without looking at it, she walked past him to the door. In passing, she said, “You missed.” She returned to her room, picked up the blanket, and lay on the rock. She covered herself with the coarse material. A peasant had better bedding. She placed her head on the block of unfeeling wood and slept.

The master’s laughter filled the great, empty academy for hours.