5. Road to Zechaat

A/N: Unable to think of a better title. I know it's been some time, but as my O'levels approach the time that I can put aside to writing will continue to dwindle (yes, the worst is yet to come). But because I've viewed my writing as something a level above, or on par to, my examinations, I will hopefully pen down a few more chapters before the papers officially begin, on Nov 2nd. Just several pointers though.
The scene with the slave in this chapter was an idea I got while listening to Creed's 'Who's Got My Back' from their Weathered CD – for reasons unknown. Although I could say it was fuelled by Tigrin's continued emphasis on slavery in 'Amount To Nothing', I've tried to make it scene as short as possible, so as not to burden myself and the readers with extra characters. I've also noticed that I often fail to use characters I've already mentioned in the first few chapters. I'll try and revisit their roles later in the story. The music, which is something I hope to display emotions, will also be developed.

On the morning of our departure I arise early. The shadow of the night still rests over the city but dewdrops, fragile and glassy, have condensed upon my window. Like shimmering crystals, they capture the distant sunlight, now blue and suffused, and make me think my window is encrusted with diamonds.

                The entire household is busy with work. Aunt Cheng prepares the provisions of food we will have to take on our journey; Mother and Michelle help Father with the last packages that need to go into the craft. Mr. Niel chews on a snack as he waits. Iain is nowhere in sight. Neither is Vanessa.

                My heart sinks for a moment, but I remember we are to leave soon, so I hasten. In my haversack I dump my clothes that I need for this journey, and I pick the memory clip which I need to record my best songs – if I ever get to play. Even Liwei is wide awake on a morning like this; I change into bermudas, my khaki-coloured ones, for I will save the slacks for later, then don a shirt and jacket for modesty.

                The moment I reach downstairs, Aunt Cheng reproaches my sluggishness, and orders me to fill my stomach with some breakfast or she will not allow me to step out of the house. With so little time to prepare, breakfast is nothing special. I eat the pastries she's made from dough and sweetened syrup; they taste sweet when you first bite them, but once in your mouth they are as bland as leaves. But the dough weighs down in your stomach, and keeps you satisfied for hours. Aunt Cheng returns from delivering her provisions, my progress with breakfast and chides me again.

                "Iris, will you hurry up and eat?" she says in her trying, frustrated voice. "Time is short and your father will be leaving!"

                "He says in half-an-hour's time," I retort.

                "But Mr. Niel's son, the older, handsome one – what's his name – Iain, is coming. A well brought up girl should make herself presentable for male guests."

                I almost chortle as I eat. Aunt Cheng finds sadistic satisfaction pointing to me how masculine I am. She complains girls should not listen to anything more than the words of her elders, let alone music. She rebukes my cooking skills – Michelle has always been the better one – and never fails to tell me a story of how things were done when she was my age. She doesn't like my slacks, either.

                A thought crosses my mind. "Aunt Cheng, when were you and Uncle married?"

                I can see the surprise in her face at asking such an awkward question at this hour, but she is only too delighted to give me the details: "Back on Earth," she says, blushing, "I was fifteen and he was seventeen."

                "Then when were Mother and Father married?" I inquire.

                "When there was an Earth, your Mother at sixteen and…" she frowns suddenly at me, "Ai! So many questions! Well brought up girls don't ask: they only do! Finish your breakfast quickly."

                "I'm just wondering," I mumble.

                "Think carefully before you choose a husband, girl," she adds, her finger waving threateningly, as if she just had an afterthought, "he should be able to take care of you and protect you, especially in times such as these. How old are you anyway, Iris?"

                "Sixteen," I say. "Iain is sixteen too."

                "Then it is time he thought about marriage then!" she exclaims. A stone sinks into my stomach, heavier than the dough; it feels as if someone has used my stomach for a guitar, strumming an unpleasant tune. I don't see it, but I'm sure I my cheeks are a burning of red. Marriage? I hope I haven't given Aunt Cheng any weird ideas.

                I remember my dreams, and decide it is safe enough to ask her. 

                "Aunt Cheng, have you ever had a recurring dream?" I ask again.

                She doesn't rebuke, but her voice is low and serious. "No, why?"

                "I keep on having dreams that I – we – were back…" I stammer as the word 'home' rolls in my tongue, "…on Earth. I dream about our old bungalow and the quarry behind it and then everything turns to screaming and shouting. I seem to wake up every time, in a pool of sweat, after I have these dreams."

                "Dreams? They could be omens, of things to come," she suggests. Aunt Cheng still holds on stubbornly to her old superstitions, "but nostalgia, and screaming: this is not a good sign."

                Muffled noises come from outside, where there is a blur of activity.

                "Come, ah, Iris," she hastens. "Your Father is waiting, with your friends. And do not think of your troubles in your sleep, for they are just dreams."

                I try to remember her words. I pick up my haversack and follow her towards the door. Do not think of them… they are just dreams…

                The craft occupies the entire narrow street. Mr. Niel is talking to Jeffery, while others mill around, half-interested in our departure. Doug looks on from his balcony where the street bends, his presence ever unnerving. The back door to the craft is open, revealing a compartment stuffed full with cases and bags of things we will empty along the way or at the fair. Michelle and Liwei wait patiently by the side, in anticipation of the moment of our departure.

                I see several figures from the corner of my eye making their way towards us. I turn; Iain is with Vanessa, one of large drums in his arms, while Mr. Perez trails behind, with some cymbals. At the sight of Vanessa and Iain together, I feel a sense of alarm well up within me; jealousy more than anything else, after my conversation with Aunt Cheng, flashes, then subsides. I try to blot out thoughts of distrust out of my mind. 

                I have always treated Vanessa as my equal but I know, in some ways, the lengths, how impulsive, she is capable of.

                But my distrust is replaced with optimism. Iain smiles at me, taking my hand. With this distraction, he loses his balance, tries to correct, overcorrects and is on the verge of being buried by the bass drum until I take the other end and balance the load.

                I peer over the drum at him, trying to put on one of my most mischievous leers. "I take it you couldn't manage?"

                "I could, until you came along," he justifies, his face feigning hurt.

                "Weakling," Vanessa mutters.

                We load the bass drum onto the open space on one side, and the remaining drums and cymbals on the other. With Iain's bass guitar slung across his back, there is barely enough room for the three of us. Not enthusiastic in being cooped up in the craft's storage compartment, we mill around outside.

                I approach Mother and she hugs me, pressing me close to her. I feel her warm arms grasp me in a motherly embrace; a kiss lands on my head, and when I pull out her eyes look at me longingly.

                "Now don't get into any trouble now," she warns, "and don't go off-road during the journey. Take care of your Father for me."

                I think, strangely, of Iain. "That wouldn't be a problem, Ma, if he doesn't go out of the way."

                "And make sure he doesn't overwork himself," Mother warns, "tell him to avoid the hawkers and the peddlers. Don't buy from them."

                "Of course, we won't," I reassure her, the threat of disease lurking at the back of my mind.

                Father hugs Michelle, then gently pats Liwei on the head. "What shall I get you from the fair?" he asks.

                "Sneakers!" chirps Liwei. He has always longed for proper shoes; he wears worn sandals all the time because Jeffery helps him patch it up with leather.

                "And you Michelle?"

                I cannot but marvel at her quiet, thoughtful disposition. "A bracelet maybe, or a token from Zechaat so I can say that you've been there."

                Father acknowledges. As he finishes his final words with Mother, I say to Michelle: "Don't worry. If we see any human kids in Zechaat, we will tell them about you, and they'll give us something as a gift."

                Michelle's smile is warm and pleasant, but time presses. Vanessa is still in a deep farewell conversation with Mr. Perez. If it weren't for this being a happy occasion, I would have thought they were weeping. I approach them, and out my hand on Vanessa's shoulder for comfort.

                "Take good care of yourself, Vanne," Mr. Perez says, "and remember not to get into any unwanted trouble."

                "I won't." she replies, her hands still interlocked with her fathers'.

                He turns next to me. "Watch over her, Iris, and don't let her do anything rash."

                "Don't worry, Mr. Perez, Iain and I will watch her."

                "Goodbye then!"

                As we enter the craft, people – our loved ones – bid us farewell, on a trip across the continent to a different city. The space is limited, but we make use of whatever room we have to make ourselves comfortable. The window of the back door, and the flap that opens to the drivers, are our only means of seeing the world while inside this metal hulk. I see Michelle and Liwei and Aunt Cheng and Mother are waving – the craft lurches forward, picking up speed – I wave back hoping they can see me – then we round the bend – their faces disappear into a solid wall – and they are gone…

The first few miles of our trip are spent within the city. Zyjushem, like many of the outlying cities, is connected to Zechaat by roads, passes and highways. The cumbersome vehicle, burdened with weight, gives a steady hum as it ploughs along the road. Sometimes the craft will pick up speed, and the buildings, the roads, would be nothing but a blur of scenery. Other times, the vehicle slows to a boring crawl. Mr. Niel thinks the engine is dying.

                Nonetheless by the afternoon we have left Zyjushem behind, and have nothing but a single-lane tarred road and signs at various intervals to lead us on. The road is deserted, and I remind Father we must stick to the road. I have often heard stories of bandits and all sorts of other aliens waiting for victims along off-roads. 

                The Solbrecht landscape, however, is no more encouraging. A low mist hands over the ground, cleaving the brownish grass. The scrubland of tangled vines and wilted brambles extend as far as the eye can see on both sides of the road. Leafless trees guard intersections; the entire landscape is devoid of life, or beauty. Stripped forests stand against the grey sky like the strings of a broken guitar. Shrubs, some with leaves, are gnarled and ragged.

                As Mr. Niel predicts, we cross the invisible lines and enter the vast wilderness of the Solbrecht's interior. Now the road has widened; parts of it are tarried, while signs give better directions. Traffic increases, and right now there is a stream of crafts and other vehicles along the road.  

                Mr. Niel asks, "Where are you from? Where are you headed?" The answers are all the same: to the fair at Zechaat to trade. But they come from all the outlying cities: Fermraeth, Wleed, Zargekra. Many are friendly, while others treat us with suspicion. They keep their distance, and whisper to each other behind our backs.

                As nightfall nears we reach a small community which, like everything around it, is bleak and dreary. It lies off the main road, but it is too hard to avoid, even amongst the overgrown brush. Across the community lies a huge ridge of rock, surrounded by excavations, as if to mark the community's presence. A quarry has been cut into the rock, so that it looks like a chunk has been blown off the ridge. Its sides are rusty orange with limestone, the pools a shade of sickly green. Mining scars, red with rust, mark the ridge like wounds licking up its dusty sides. 

                There is nothing here, except the desolate wasteland.

                In the community we find lodging in a squat building by the wayside – the only lodge in town. Crowded with other travelers, Mr. Niel offers to park the vehicle while we find a room for ourselves. The innkeeper, a burly, Solbrecht native, looks down on us with both disdain and exhaustion.

                "Room? Everyone wants a room!" he bemoans, "I cannot do anything but tell them there are no more rooms if they are not willing to sacrifice their capital for it!"

                Father takes out a handful of debit plates. "We can pay," he offers.

                The innkeeper smirks, or is it a sneer? "You humans, always using your money," he says slyly to us. "You'd think it was illegal to accept your debits, but well, what can a poor native do but accept it?" he turns to the doorway behind the counter, "Maya! Bring these customers' luggage to their rooms!" 

                Father and Iain are ushered towards the stairs by the innkeeper. Then, as we follow, Vanessa and I see him.

                A boy, our age, is standing very still in the doorway. His clothes are torn and filthy, his face soiled with a streak of dried blood caked above the left ear. One of his arms is red with welt marks of mites and ticks; his muddied feet are bare, his lips a blood-red swollen. I cannot help but stare back, but my eyes forced themselves down to the chain that binds his hands.

                "Maya!" the innkeeper bellows, his hand coming down forcefully on the boy's cheek. He stumbles but quickly picks himself up, reeling. "How many times must I tell you not to delay! We have a business to run. Now take these bags up to the customers' rooms!"

                He humbly bows as she approaches us, but I pick up my guitar case and say to him: "Thanks, I can manage."

                Still, he continues to stare, as if we are a species so profound or outlandish. Vanessa looks around, afraid the innkeeper might see the boy's inaction and punish him again. I want to say something, but the words that come out of my mouth say instead: "Err… will you take us to our room?"

                He is awakened from his trance; trudging, he grasps the handles of several cases, and hauls them upstairs. Unsettled and unsure of what to do, Vanessa and I follow, trying not to look left or right at the alien guests that stroll past us. They dry leathers, fashion crafts and bake delicacies for the fair. The boy Maya leads us, to the end of the passage, where two doors share on lantern. Here, he sets down the luggage.

                "Thank you," Vanessa says.

                But Maya stuns us. He throws himself at Vanessa's feet, and begs, whimpering, crying. Then he seizes her hands with his flaking, wrinkled ones. Vanessa recoils in surprise but he clutches them, not wanting to let go, kissing them, rubbing them against his wet cheeks.

                "Please, miss, let me follow you…" he pleads, "I don't wish to stay… any longer… no more longer. You show me kindness, miss… please allow me to follow you."

                Vanessa turns to me; I can tell from her eyes she is thunderstruck. And honestly so am I. We did not anticipate this; we have no human slaves in Zyjushem – except in the magistrate's quarters. We did not foresee how it thrives in this wilderness.

                "Please, miss," he prostrates himself again, kissing Vanessa's feet, "please take me away… I no tell, I promise… I just want away…"

                "MAYA!"

                The innkeeper's voice booms from beyond the bend in the passage. The boy shudders, and is on his feet. He holds Vanessa tightly still. Then he gives in; will broken and chains rattling, he heeds his master's orders. He doesn't look back.

                Vanessa looks at me; I can tell she is trying to study my reaction.

                But in the end she voices my thoughts, pushing open the door: "There was nothing in our power that we could've done."

                I am unable to sleep. My thoughts often wander back home, where Michelle and Liwei always whisper in their beds, and of the cooling night air. Here in the lodge the air-conditioning makes the place stuffy; the room is small and enclosed. Mr. Niel arrives later, but we don't tell any of the adults what we have seen. With Mr. Niel insisting that Iain sleep in their room, Vanessa and I have a room to ourselves.

We eat some food, conserve some for the rest of the journey. I take out my guitar from its case, and begin to tune my chords. I can hear Iain's bass guitar from across the walls. Slowly I pick a tune, a simple one, with just three chords, and try to create a song. Vanessa watches, but later goes to bed exhausted. My silent music fills the room, sad and full of emotion.

                 I imagine I have no eyes now, letting my hands and imagination              lead me. The first thought that comes to my mind is of the slave boy, still serving other guests. My hands now guide my thoughts; they come down sharply on chords and pick on them, until my tune has become a song. Eyes closed, my hands repeat the tune over and over again; voices, singing, form in my mind, and soon I am singing too, whispering softly.

                And again I think of Maya and how he had begged us. Now the music pulls at my heart. The song is gloomy, sad, wanting – to be freed and expressed. I forget myself and my physical weariness; it is a strange thing, feeling sad because of music. My voice lessens to a low undertone now, as I two pairs of hands guide me: one picking at the guitar, one in chains.

In the morning arise, and leave hastily. Having paid for our stay, we have a miserable breakfast of bread crusts dipped in sweet milk. Some of the aliens regard us casually, others ignore us completely. The innkeeper, is voice coarse from ordering his slaves around, sends us off. I hate his smile; I never see Maya again.

                On the road again our mood loosens up a bit, and we begin to talk. The landscape is still bitter and hostile, but the greying skies have given way to some sunshine. Travelers clog the roads; the sheer flow of traffic extends across the highway in a straight line of crafts, both big and small. And finally, we meet fellow humans.

                We meet them, company by company, and Mr. Niel decides we would be more secure with them. Like us, their destination is the fair, and they have brought goods – in innumerable amounts – ranging from jewelry, crafted pottery, food and antiques. I have never seen so many humans gathered at one place before; though good-natured as they are, I notice our large numbers make other travelers uneasy. So let them be then, on the road to Zechaat!

                Towards noon our food supplies expire and others share their provisions. The taste – for the first time in months – of a spiced meal is like heaven! In return for help later at the fair, we get waffles, slices of meat and lukewarm soup. We laugh; Mr. Niel talks about the old days, and we are content.            

                But we do not wish to live off our friends. We break away from the main group for a moment and stop at one of the communities to buy food. Only one small-sized alien is present, tending stocks of jhowel game and acres of grain.

                We purchase several slices of meat and a bushel of cereal. The alien is always looking around. His single-antennae pricked high with alertness. "How much for the purchase?" asks Father.

                "Fifty debits," he replies, he spins around again, and there is added malice in his voice, "it's a good thing I am tending the field today. If it were my friends, they would've charged higher, or turned you away."

                "Then for our kindness, we are thankful," Mr. Niel acknowledges, gesturing. Once in the craft, though, the alien disappears hastily back into his dwelling.

                Vanessa whispers to me and Iain, "Why did he lie? I didn't see anybody else."

                "He was afraid," Iain suggests, "by our numbers, so he threatened us. I think our presence is making the aliens wary."

                On our last night before we reach Zechaat, I lie in the open with Vanessa, who tells me of all the unusual things that have gone on today. A tent has been provided for us; I try to practice my chords, but I feel too weary to do anything. Lying on my back, I listen to Vanessa as she speaks.

                She tells me of her and Iain's meeting with another human girl from the other travelers when after dinner. I had been helping Father with unloading all our outdoor gear, so I had missed everything. They had been approached by this girl; her eyes were deep green, her red hair straight and sublime. Vanessa says she wore leather jeans and an overcoat. Her words were directed at Iain.

                She had asked him: "Do you travel alone?"

                Iain's reply had been short and sharp. "My Father is in the craft behind me, with some of my friends."

                Then she had made the offer. "If it is not too much trouble, perhaps even as a human like me you require a moment of pleasure," her eyes flashed. The top button of her overcoat was undone, and Vanessa reckons Iain could have seen the nape of her neck downwards. "And if I may be honoured to be that object you desire…"

                Vanessa tells me of Iain's response: "Miss, I am accounted for. It wouldn't be proper if I break a promise."

                The girl had looked crestfallen, like a wounded puppy. Iain had turned his back on her, leaving her in the darkness between the crafts. Vanessa followed him back, saying Iain had never looked more guilty.

                We stare dreamily up into the night sky, blanketed with tiny sparks of stars. "He must really like you then," Vanessa says to me, her voice releasing thin wisps of vapour in the cold night air, "to refuse that girl. You'd think a rough guy like Iain wouldn't hesitate."

                I punch her in the shoulder, but I do consider her words. Iain had been free of his father and had the right to make his own choice. But he had chosen otherwise, and suddenly, I feel a flush starting up my cheeks. For the first time, I see some sort of gallantry through all his exuberance.

                So Iain must really care for me then. But I do not know. All I can think of are fantasies of the two of us singing together on a stage before millions and millions of people. I close my eyes; I can almost hear the chords I play, as I clutch my guitar close to me. My fantasies soon slip into dreams. I can feel a longing inside of me so strong that I draw my hands back, to surrender to the music. The music surrounds me, and voices echo in song.

My guitar seems to be playing by itself, as my hands quiver and shake. I can hear Iain's voice now, strong and sure through the music. He sings as the music overtakes everything.

                And I will dance.

Written by shelter