Author's Note: Hey guys, thanks for saying you'd wait for me! It means a lot. And now that I'm all ready--except for my lap top, which I'm typing on--I'm going to update again. If by a miracle any hotel I stay in on the way to school has wireless access perhaps you'll hear from me again before Sunday. No promises, though.
So here's the first part of Samira's story. (Yes, sorry, this isn't all of it in one go.) BTW, I created Samira's story (though of course things like this could have and do happen) but I must say a bit of it was inspired by the back story of a character Margaret Atwood created. Still, Samira's story is her own, though this whole process started after I thought about the interviews I watched in a college class that were with women and girls who had escaped or were rescued from Samira's predicament. Just thought I'd put that in...
I must warn you, this chapter has some rather unpleasant subject matter, but as always I do not go in depth with anything, er, unsavory (for lack of a better word) so the rating isn't changed. Violence is mentioned, sexual impositions are hinted at but not made explicit. And no, I don't own H+W or the unsinkable Mrs. Hudson. I do own Samira. I apologize in advance that this is rather sad... Okay. I think I'm done with the disclaimers... xD
Because I was missing him, this chapter is from Watson's POV even though all he is doing is listening to Samira and laying in bed right now. I thought you guys might want to hear from the poor chap, though, regardless. Thanks, as ever, for r+r-ing. If I don't see/hear from you guys again, then be well till we talk/you read me again and wish me a safe journey. Finally, Let me know what you of this chapter!!
Watson
Miss Samira sums up what she heard during Mrs. Hudson's encounter with this Jack Uden fellow quickly and succinctly. I glance over at Holmes as she finishes her explanation of earlier events and, from long years of experience, I can tell a little of what he is thinking—I shall have to ask Mrs. Hudson about the incident later, to see if there is anything Miss Samira left out.
"How did you know this man, other than the fact that he was—a regular customer of Crawford's?" Holmes asks. I am glad he is using some tact, for it is obvious the young lady is uncomfortable, though she occasionally pats my arm as if I am the one in need of reassurance.
"He was…ah…lover…of Bao Yu, girl who shared my room. After she died, he came for her and I told him she had passed on. I told him how she died—from infection," she says the word with the ease of practice, "that she get from being chained." Her voice is casual as she says this, as though it is a not unusual occurrence in the world she came from, and I am filled with sympathy. She has seen so many things she should not have. "Jack said he wanted his money's worth and so I mended his shirt."
We both just look at her—is that some strange sort of euphemism? But, no, she seems entirely sincere.
"Lit-er-ally," she says after a pause and after reading our expressions. "He said I was Bao Yu's friend, so he would no do nothing else. He let me keep needle. That is only time I saw him."
Holmes makes an interested sounding 'hmm,' but says nothing, waiting for her to continue, so I maintain my silence. I am glad Holmes waited to give me the morphine—already exhaustion is beginning to catch up with me and I have no doubt that I should be quite insensible if he had already given me the injection. The pain is there, growing steadily worse as I have been in an upright position for so long, but I am genuinely interested in what Samira has to say and I can tell she feels more comfortable with me than with Holmes, so I try and hide my discomfort. Nevertheless, I can tell I have not managed to hide my suffering from Holmes—he is watching me covertly. I meet his eyes and give him a small smile of reassurance, but the worried lines around his eyes do not fade.
"Dr. Wat-son, you are well enough?" She has noticed our nonverbal communication and her voice is genuinely contrite.
I sigh. "I am fine." Though I am replying to Samira, I shoot a look at Holmes who gives me a wry, slightly irked smile.
Samira looks at me closely and either decides I look strong enough or at least stubborn enough for her to go on. "Mr. Holmes, I only told you how Shing, my step-father, was one who sold me and Lian after Mother died?" Holmes nods. "Then, Doctor, you are now caught up."
She takes another deep breath and I can see it is hard for her, so I will try my best to listen and not interrupt what I am sure will be a heart wrenching story. It is strange that I, who have seen so many deaths and horrendous sights, am leery of what she will say. In the war I saw thousands upon thousands of men die gruesomely—and I even saw some women and children perish in the same manner—and as horrendous as it was, it was war and I came to expect it. Not that I ever got used to it, of course, I merely learned to anticipate the worst and to block off my emotions as much as I could so that I could stay sane. Samira was not in the war; however, her sufferings were not ones that could be written off as an atrocity of warfare…
"It is strange to say this to you," she began. "Last person I told this to was Bao Yu, on night before she died. She asked for my story so she would know me in other world... I will try and tell this to you like I did to her. Once in while, parts are hard for me to remember. It is like…" Samira closes her eyes as if to better see beyond the present.
"It is like searching through fog on river at night... All is uncertain and dark and it is easy to lose way." She pauses. "After Shing sold me and Lian, we were trans-por-ted to man who took us to China. Boat ride there…it is all haze and sickness, I can no remember most of it other than darkness and bodies every where." Samira reaches out her hands to demonstrate and pantomimes her discovery that she was surrounded.
As horrible as I can tell this is going to be, it is clear to me that Samira truly has a gift for storytelling. Her accented voice, usually so unsure, is now smooth and rhythmic, assured of herself and matter of fact.
"When in China, we were sold to very old man. At least, he seemed so to us then—I was ten and Lian six—he seemed older than all men we had ever seen. Now, as I too am older, I think he was either fifty or sixty at most."
I cannot help but notice that she often says 'we,' including her sister in the tale. Always the two of them. It is as she said, when one is bound by plong jai rak, 'you love person in way that makes it impossible to withdraw from relationship. It is lifelong commitment, it is binding as contract, you simply cannot quit.'
Samira has not quit her half of the bond between them merely because Lian is dead, much like the way I still held ours after I thought Holmes had perished at the Falls. I really cannot imagine life without Holmes even though I've already gone through it once. It is true that physically I survived Reichenbach, but part of me died that day. I received my salvation, at first, through gentle Mary who refused to let me give up, and then in Holmes' reappearance, which was the only thing that made me care to live again. If I were to lose him again…I do not wish to well on the topic. The point is that I must do something for this girl, she must find another reason to live…but, as I know too well, that will not be easy.
Holmes is watching Samira closely without any trace of an expression. Not for the first time, I envy his abilities as I turn back to her.
She continues the story in her pretty, melodic voice, saying that at first both she and Lian were terrified, but then they were taken to a pretty room with a lot of other women and girls. It had an odd smell, she says, that was a mix of perfume, body odor, and incense. No one spoke to them, except to say that Lian would stay with the young girls in the room because she was too young for work. Then, Samira says, she was less afraid; nothing would happen to her sister and she herself was a hard worker—surely she could make a good living for them.
"Room seemed big to me then, with fabric on each wall and mats and pillows all over floor, but it was no bigger than your room out there." She points to the sitting room. "Every where there were women and girls, though none of them looked at us. I ask them where we were and what would happen, but no one answered, no one looked at us. In that room it was silent, unless one whispered, which me and Lian did. Later, I honestly can no say if it was days or hours, I was called in to see old man and I was to come alone. It was first time me and Lian had been apart since we were sold and both of us cried heavily. Finally, servant pried us away from each other and took me to our new owner's room."
It is easy to picture the small, harem-like room full of indifferent women and the scared little girl Samira must have been—it is as if her words have transported me into her past. I can see her, still thin, like now—but not quite so starved—gangly, with large, widened eyes, clinging to her little sister with the desperation of one who has already lost everything else.
I glimpse at Holmes—he is listening intently, with none of his usual impatience for the person speaking to get to the relevant point showing. Perhaps he is concerned for her, as I am, or perhaps he is only curious. Regardless, I am glad it seems that he will not push her—I have a feeling that she has to tell us in her own way or not at all.
"I asked him if we were going to be married—" She interrupts herself with a sparkling, self-mocking laugh. "I thought I was to be one of his many wives. It was, at time, only explanation I had in my mind for room full of women. Our owner, who was named Ping Zheng, laughed at me. He said he had no plans for another wife, that his one was more than enough for him. And then he said he had thought of new game for me to play for him, and didn't I want to be good girl and make my new master happy?" She stops for a moment and looks at her hands, then gently puts her slim fingers on my wrist, again offering solace to someone else when she herself needs to be consoled.
For several long beats, the room remains silent. It seems Samira needs encouragement and when I look at Holmes he gives me a slight nod, so I ask, "What…what did he want you to do?"
Oh there are so many answers to that I would rather not hear! Holmes and I share a look and we are instanly in perfect understanding and sympathy with each other.
Samira looks at me and then at Holmes, her face a carefully, perfectly blank, well-practiced mask. It is just as good as, and in fact perhaps better, than the one Holmes' uses. After all, I have become able to occasionally read Holmes', but hers is utterly untranslatable to me.
"I was…his trap."
"What do you mean?" This time it is Holmes that asks the question and I can see in his grey eyes that he has already divined the answer.
"Zheng told me he was rich man with many friends. Every one knew he had prettiest, as he said, female pets in all of East, and every one knew, too, that we were not to be seen or touched by persons other than members of his household. Of course, all visitors wanted much to see his women and girls, but few did. On nights when he had male guests, I was to walk around garden and act 'young and innocent.' This was no hard for me at time," she says with an ironic lilt in her voice.
"If male guest went to garden and see me and ask if I was one of Zheng's pets, I was to say yes. If they ask me to come with them, I was to go and to do what they asked, no matter what. Eventually, one of his older women would come in room and pick me up and act angry that they were 'defiling' Zheng's girl. Men, of course, quickly would dress while women yelled and I…well, I watched. Every time, guest would give woman money, beg her for silence. Zheng got that money and whichever woman rescued me…she was allowed to be free from Zheng's…services…for month."
Samira blinks and seems to realize where she is and what she's been saying and she lets out a small, sad sigh that I can barely hear. "I was trap. I did no like it—I was afraid each time of what might happen—but I did as I was told without fight. Everyone knew girls who did no obey were killed, and I had Lian to think of. I had lied and said she was four—she always looked younger than she was with her round face—and as long as I did my part, Zheng said he would no touch her. I think it was then, that first time I see Zheng, that he told me everything has price. After I saw men caught in my trap pay money, I believed him." For the first time, her resolve seems to waver and she hesitates. "I-I thought, at time, since everything had cost, if I was good girl and obeyed and did no run away, I would be paying for Lian to stay safe…that what I did was price paid to keep her protected forever. It was silly, do you not think?" Her simple, self-deprecating words are full of unspoken grief.
"Samira," I say softly, carefully. I can tell that if I say the wrong thing she will instantly close in on herself, but the pain in her eyes will not allow me to remain silent. "You were only a child."
"…Yes…" she concedes quietly. "But Lian was much younger and I took on role of her mother as well as sister. I was responsible for her." Before I can respond, she continues. "We were lucky that we had each other… many others had no one, nothing. So I was all right until one day, no woman came into room where man had taken me. I ran, half dressed, to our room to get Lian. I could no leave without her. Other women caught us, beat me, and held me there until Zheng came for me later."
Holmes makes a slight, sympathetic murmur, which is rare for him. I myself gasp at her words. Rationally, I know the other women were afraid, that they were cruel to save themselves, but it is hard to exonerate them since two little girl's suffered.
"Zheng punish me, of course." She unconsciously slumps her shoulders, easing the pains of her back—both the ones present now and the intangible, remembered ones in her past--making me recall the battle scarred men I treated in the war who cried out that their amputated limbs were hurting. Some aches never leave.
"After he done, he made me offer. He said if I was good, he would never touch Lian, and even said I could also have one thing I ask for. To point, of course."
"Of course." Holmes narrows his steel eyes. "What did you ask for?"
"I asked for his promise that me and Lian would no be separated. He said to ask for different thing and I thought about lan-guage. I spoke Siamese, then, of course," she smiles a little. "And Chinese, but other women always whispered about 'civilized' life in Eng-land and A-merica, and I wish to know another lan-guage I could teach Lian, so we could speak together and no be understood. All Zheng's women were Chinese or Siamese and spoke either one or both. So I thought and finally asked to learn to talk English and read it. Zheng was surprised, but kept his word. Lian was no…touched…and I was given many A-merican 'dime novels.' It was my start to learning English, though I still do no talk so good."
"You speak quite well," I say, genuinely impressed at her multilingual abilities despite her having had no formal schooling.
"You no need to tell lies," she replies with a small smile that momentarily erases the serious sadness of her face. "It may be I made good deal, because later we were sold to him, A-merican."
"Yes, but… Did…Zheng…" Holmes uncharacteristically wavers and stops his question, which, if I know him, is about what exactly she sacrificed when she made the deal. Did she merely promise not to run away?
She looks at both of us, her amber eyes intense and as knowing as always, and then she looks away. "In time, yes. Then I fight. I yell. I run."
Holmes and I are silent at this revelation and this time when Samira reaches for my arm, I take her hand in mine with the earnest desire to allay her grief, hoping that I am not seeming forward. She squeezes my hand and I know it was the right thing to do. Poor girl, she is still so young to have all this pain.
"Oh, but I am telling too much of bad things." Her voice is soft, sinuous. "At first it was not so bad with Zheng, and it was always better there than with him, Craw-ford, for much reasons, but mostly because…"
It seems she cannot bear to say it, so Holmes finishes her statement for her, in a gentler than usual tone that does him credit. "Your sister was safe."
"Yes. Lian was safe. When I was twelve, it is when Zheng said I was old enough to not be girl. He called me to room and he…he made me woman. I-I was hurting and I did no move from floor for long time…" Again she closes her eyes tightly, gripping my hand, and she unconsciously puts her legs on the bed, curling them underneath her for comfort in much the same way she probably did then.
"After he was gone, I remember seeing shadows lengthen on floor and cover me like blanket. Then Zheng's wife—his real one—pulled me up, yelling, 'Why are you in here?' I did no speak, but she accused me of stealing, and Zheng came and said I must be thief, since he had no asked for me. He pretended all of his women were servants and his wife pretended to believe him. I was still young, still foolish, so I told her truth when she asked if Zheng was telling right story. I think she believed me, but she still called me liar and had me punished." Her tone is straightforward, her expression again revealing nothing. "I was kȋan... Ah, what is English word? Flogged."
She hears my quick intake of breath and by her taken aback look she seems to think that I do not believe her. I start to assure her this is not the case when she holds up her hand and turns around so that her back is to both of us, shrugs the robe a little off her shoulders, lifts her long hair, and reveals a large series of crisscrossed scars all over the top of her back.
It is obvious these wounds extend below the robe, and her new lashes are treated with plaster, but it's easy to tell the old from the new. She has so many scars, more than I've ever seen on one person on anyone other than a burn victim. Perhaps the worst of it is that I know, from personal experience, that the worst of the scar tissue and the harder injuries to mend are always the ones on the inside rather than out.
