Every year, C.M. Simpson gathers up the
short stories, flash fiction and poetry she’s written, published, or prepared
for publishing, and puts them into a single volume. This year, there are two
volumes. The first volume consists of all the work, C.M. has re-discovered from
her early years of writing.
As C.M. explains at the beginning of each
volume “poems and short stories form the
playground I use to explore ways of putting words on paper to create different
effects” and each volume contains a variety of styles and subjects,
accompanied by what it was that inspired her at the time. This piece resulted
from an assignment based around a novel set for first year literature.
This short story was written in
response to an exercise set by a professor teaching first-year literature. It
was written on February 25, 1999.
The river ran brown
with mud, the current drawing whirls and streaks upon the surface to warn of
its presence.
Mayleigh stood at its edge, a toe’s breadth away from the swirling
brown. The other bank was so far away and each day, the river rose, expanding
the distance between her and her home.
Then again, she thought, the river could be nothing more than a trickle
and still I would not be able to return to my birthplace, my family. It is the
way of things.
Still, she continued to stare, across the brownness and into the nothing
of her memories. She would have been staring for much longer is she hadn’t
heard the slow-paced step of another.
It was Kara, a fellow wife, procured and paid for by the man who had
sired their children. Kara was far from happy and she came to stand by
Mayleigh.
“I will go soon,” she said.
“He will punish us all.”
Kara was silent. When next she spoke, her voice was full of tears. She
waved a hand at the water.
“I know, but if I don’t go, my sadness could murder us all.”
It was true. Since their husband had refused to let her go, Kara’s
sadness had turned from misting rain to an almost constant drizzle. The river
would continue to rise for as long as her heart wept.
Mayleigh stared out across the river. The man Kara’s heart ached to be
with had seen splendor in Kara’s deep brown eyes, and found glory in the body
Kara veiled in a shimmering rainbow of silk. He had chosen her as hostess for
his stay, and seduced her affections from her husband and master, his host.
Such things had happened before, but not under this roof, with this man, or
with Kara.
Their husband had denied his guest’s request that he release Kara,
gifting her as a living memento of his stay, but had delivered the man a
stallion, instead. Kara had been his wife of preference ever since, although
her choosing had failed to bring the usual sparkle to her eyes, and the other
wives had noticed how stiffly she moved in the mornings.
“Will you help me?”
“I can petition for your release.”
Kara’s laugh was bitter.
“Do that, and my release will be in death. No,” she said, and lowered
her voice. “You sleep closest to the balcony door, and I need you not to wake.”
She shook the bells that hemmed her skirt, to show Mayleigh what she
meant.
“I will be beaten.”
“But you will survive. And I will be free, and war will not sweep over
us all.”
Mayleigh did not know how Kara knew her admirer would cause a war to
obtain her. She had guessed that Kara was in contact with her lover, but had
not known until now. It was better not to ask.
Mayleigh gave a brief dip of her chin to show her agreement, and
pretended not to hear Kara’s softly spoken thanks, or feel the girl’s hand
touch her arm. She stared across the turgid river until the soft whisper of the
Kara’s bells faded.
She could avoid the beating, if she reported Kara to the husband who owned
them both—and it was possible his army and household guard could beat off any
attackers, if she gave him time to prepare—but she would not be able to avoid
witnessing Kara’s execution, and their husband was sure to make the girl an
example to them all. Those were memories she could do without. No, better a
beating than the aftermath of flashback, and weight of guilt. She would not be
a murderer by proxy, if she could avoid it.
Although Mayleigh stood as stiffly as the marbled palace
at her back, her mind roiled like the current in the throes of thought. At
least, with her promise, the clouds had started to lift. Maybe, later, there
would be sunshine.
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