Sharp Words

Hello, I’m home from the day job and tomorrow I will embark on four fun-filled days at RWA Conference, where I’ll try to pretend writing is my actual profession instead of just the hobby that consumes all my free time.  Anyway, here is the third and final installment of Terra Obscura. The entire story will be available in the Reads section of my website. www.bettiesharpe.com/reads/TerraObscura.htm

I do not faint until my third day in the dyehouse. I am relatively new to these shores, and possessed of a stronger constitution than those who have toiled here a year or more. I feel it coming on before it happens, and step back from the fire and the steam before falling to my knees upon the packed dirt floor.

My sight becomes as black as the swirling liquid in the dye vat, and when next it clears, I am in a cooler place, resting upon a pile of undyed garments as Matron Jarvis leans over me.

“Do not breathe the steam,” she says as I squint up at her wrinkled, spotted face. Her eyes are overhung by sagging lids of papery skin and I can barely see them for the folds. Her mouth is a grim line of thin, pale lips with deep wrinkles all around, like cracks in a field of dried mud. There is nothing kind about her—she is as obtuse and unyielding as the wall outside, and has only allowed me this respite so that she may wring more work from me before the bell sounds for evening Meeting.

“You shall return to the vat tomorrow, but for today you may remove buttons and gewgaws from the finer garments so that the dyestuff does not tarnish them.” She points to a rough-hewn bench in the corner beside a garish pile of cloth, and beneath a smoking oil lamp.

I tell myself I should faint more often. It would not be a difficult thing to pretend a weak constitution, a delicate sensibility. I could groan and moan in all my tasks, but continue bravely on, grimacing like a martyr keeping silent on the pyre. I could pretend weakness, and these people would love me for it. In this place, there is no better standard of a pure soul than a suffering body.

I settle on the bench, and start to pick gilt threads from the hem of a brown satin doublet. I am slow at the task, savoring the soft feel of the fabric between my fingers. No, I do not have it in me to enjoy suffering, nor even the appearance of it.

I finish the doublet and retrieve another garment from the pile. This one is a hooded velvet cloak, as deep red as the last drops of wine poured from the bottle. The buttons are carved of bone. The hood is lined with sable. The fabric warms in my hand, soft and soothing as a pleasant memory.

The back hem falls longer than the front, making the cloak’s purpose apparent. Like all the garments of the wealthy, this hooded cloak was designed for a single activity and is quite impractical for any other. It was not meant for walking but for riding. I will have to cut the extra fabric from the hem before it will be suitable for the muddy streets and endless work here within the wall.

The Elders would rail at the vanity of such a garment, but I can only smile as I imagine myself wearing the cloak. The sable lining of the hood caresses my cheek, catching the warmth of my skin and keeping it close. The long rear hem of the red cloak trails out behind me, spilling over my horse’s withers as we travel across the snowy white fields and through the dark forest toward the cold blue sea and a ship that might carry us Home.

Reluctantly, I think of the woman to whom the cloak belonged. She is small—roughly my size. She arrived last week. Last night at meeting I watched her raise red stripes upon her back with the flagellant’s whip as she confessed her sins. By her confession, her life was a litany of lust, greed, pride and curiosity. Her tale stretched from birth until the moment she decided to leave the Old World for the new; to trade her red hood and cloak for a shredded back and bloodstained shift.

Here be monsters.

I cannot rend this garment. It is too beautiful; too soft and warm. I can no more cover its brilliant hue to make it seem humble and holy, than I can blot out my hatred of this settlement and my longing for a place where my thoughts and beliefs are my own concern.

This cloak and I, we are the products of an other place; of an other, less humble people. My mother feels safe within the wall. She finds comfort in confession, peace in penitence, and ease beneath the Elders’ ever-watchful eyes. But for me this place is as poisonous and penetrating as the steaming liquid in the vats. I will die if I stay here.

The moment is so ordinary, so natural. Like a door opening in a dark room, the thought of leaving illuminates my mind. All of my silent complaints and petty rebellions were useless stumblings in the dark. I must find my own path. I must leave the darkened room to walk blind and blinking into the light.

This is not the faith the Elders want for me, but it is the faith I have found. I do not want the wall, or the dyeing, or the cold comfort of their pure, white Heaven. I want the world outside the chamber; the unknown places on the map.

The Elders say the land beyond the wall is wicked and untamed, but what good is protection from the world without if it comes at the cost of conformity, penitence and pain?

My red cloak and I, we will keep our colors and our character. We will forgo the certainty of salvation and take our chances with the wolves.

 

Thanks for reading!

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