The Next Step
I watch, leaning on the doorjamb, very amused. Taurin is trying to calm her down and coax her into acceptance.
"Really, Christine," he says, "it isn't that bad. It is simply a precaution. You will simply look like a man."
My smirk grows slightly.
"I am pregnant," she says loudly and slowly. "Do you not understand that?"
He is quiet for a moment. "You are a fat man." I can hear his restrained laughter, and it infuriates Christine even more.
"Stop!" she shouts, and she looks at me. "Stop laughing, both of you! How would you like to be forced to wear dresses?"
Taurin does start laughing, and he nearly doubles over, clutching the wound in his side. "Stop it – stop, Christine," he wheezes.
She gives an outraged shriek and turns around, her dark, curly hair whipping out behind her. Without a word or a glance, she marches past me. I raise an eyebrow at Taurin, who responds with a mockingly-sympathetic shrug. Sighing, I follow her to the small bedroom, where she fumes silently.
"I would like something to eat," she says, not looking at me. Her little mouth is still puckered with anger. Although I am tempted to smile, I nod gravely to humor her and lead her to the kitchen, where I gather a poor meal of bread, cheese, and water, but she eats it all quickly and says nothing about it.
"I suppose I will be forced to stay in these particular clothes, then?" she bursts out savagely.
"Of course not," I say, my voice as calm as hers is angry. "You will receive clean ones, just the same as everyone else."
Her eyebrows raise, and she then looks at a spot on my shoulder. "You have a hole in your shirt," she says, surprisingly civil. I nod in agreement, and she offers, "I could fix it for you."
"You can sew?" I ask, surprised.
She places her hands on her hips defensively and says, "Yes, I can! I am not worthless."
"Well, then, we shall put you to work," I say, going to rummage in the main sitting room, where Khan and two others are speaking quietly. She follows me and watches while I look for a few minutes before pulling out a small bag and handing it to her. "Supplies," I say, answering her question. "Khan, please take her back to her bedroom and stay while I gather a few things."
When they have gone, I go to the men and gather the ripped shirts and trousers. If Christine is to be here, she could be doing something useful. Suddenly, I find myself smiling slightly, and I pause in my work. It isn't in my character to simply smile. But I quickly rid myself of the confusion and finish my task. Christine sets to work immediately when presented with her small job. I speak quietly to Khan and ask him to watch her for an hour or so while I take care of my aching stomach and head. As I gather something to eat, I allow my mind to wander momentarily. It wanders to Christine, bent over her chore in the other room, and once again I am urged to smile. But at this thought, I frown. Attachments are dangerous. Perhaps I am…fond of her – after all, she is so remarkably naïve, who could not be attracted to such innocence? And she is so young, too. The very life that brims in her is tantalizing. She has shown her strength in more ways than one, and I can see the growth in her.
It is hard to concentrate on less-pleasant affairs when Christine's image calls to me, but I force myself to think of the next plans. The only path I see before me is to wait. We must wait until their tempers have cooled and the guards have been reduced. To make another move right now would be foolhardy and unwise. This frustrates me, for I am not a patient man. But I will make it through.
The house is silent. It is almost dark now, and the last few rays of sunlight feebly creep through the small windows. I cannot remember the last time I have slept, and my head swims slightly. But I cannot force Khan into staying awake all night. I have taken Christine as my responsibility. It was my plan that she come here, and I will not give her to others. And so I return to the room, where Christine has fallen asleep, and Khan is dozing. He leaves, trying to look reluctant but failing miserably. I take a seat in the usual chair by the bed and watch her.
It is too easy to become hypnotized by the gentle rhythmic breathing. With heavy efforts, I force my eyes to remain open for a while longer, but I can feel myself failing. Black is clouding my vision, and I cannot stop myself from succumbing to a dream-filled sleep.
The men kneel on the ground, their faces pale. Some look outraged, others terrified, and others merely curious. Most look at the ground, but others watch a tall man as he paces back and forth before them. A smoldering pile of burned wood and cloth lay only a few yards away. Two horses are tied and watch the scene solemnly.
"The time is short, and we cannot linger," says the man, his dark hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. "We need your answers. Although most of you will refuse to give up your brainwashed ways, a few might be courageous enough to look at this from a more correct angle."
All look down at this, faces contorted with deep thought. The man's white mask gleams dully in the bright light. Some of the kneeling men throw anxious glances at it, but the tall man does not seem to care. A bird chirps in a faraway tree.
"Who will be willing to stand with us?" the man presses, stopping in the middle. "Speak now."
Slowly, very slowly, one man rises, and soon two more, but the other ten remain on the ground, their faces fixed with the decision.
"Very well," says the masked man, looking at the three men. Three out of ten was not a failure at all. He sighed, the afternoon breeze brushing over his face –
I wake, my eyes opening instantly. I take in many things at once. There is a single candle burning on the small bedside table. The night is still present. I am nearly sprawled in my chair. And my mask is off.
My eyes go to Christine, who is clutching it with both hands, her mouth opened and her eyes horrified. She takes a step back as I stand.
"I – I'm sorry," she whispers, dropping the mask. "I – I simply – I didn't – I – "
The pure, venomous fury I feel must show in my eyes, for when I take a step toward her, she turns and scrambles around the bed. A game of cat-and-mouse ensues. The room is ridiculously small, and she uses the bed as a shield between us, her blue eyes still terrified. When she runs for the door, I am able to grab her arm. With an animalistic growl erupting from my chest, I push her to the bed and force her there, where she squeals and wriggles, now closing her eyes.
"You wanted to see?" I scream. "Look! Why aren't you seeing? Look at me!"
"I'm sorry!" she sobs. "Please – I didn't know – "
"You didn't know what?" I thunder, shaking her slightly when she continues to close her eyes. "Didn't know what, Christine?"
My ears pick up the sound of hurried footsteps and voices, and I instantly climb off of her and the bed, bending to retrieve my mask and put it back on just in time to have the door open and all the men crowd around the entrance, looking confused.
"Oh," says Khan, looking from Christine, huddled on the bed, to me. "We assumed – by the raised voices…" He trails off, looking at me.
"Yes," I say, my voice as controlled as I can manage. "We merely had a disagreement. Khan, I'll ask you to watch her for the remainder of the evening. There are some…things I must attend to."
He nods, apparently dumbstruck, but I do not wait for an answer and instead sweep out of the room, my head still pounding. I quickly gather up my heavy coat and hat, and I leave the little, ugly house, the cold wind biting into my skin the moment it can. My mind is quite focused. If I continue to focus it, I will not spiral down into that horrible rage. So I watch myself ready the horse, mount it, and take off through the small, dank streets. As I ride, the homes get progressively smaller and shabbier. Soon I burst out of the city, as if it had never even been there at all, and I ride for a few more minutes, heading East, through the fields of wheat, corn, barley. The fall is taking the crops, however, and the laborers are hard-pressed to harvest the rest to meet the quota.
Finally, I gallop into the dirt street, and I pull the bit, slowing the animal down and allowing him to walk through the rows of shacks. I know these. I can envision the family that lived in the shack with the glass window. I do not know if they still live there. The next shack belongs – or belonged – to a toothless old woman who was barely able to climb out of bed in the morning, much less go out to work. I never asked for her name…what a selfish, ungrateful child I was.
And this shack…here in front of me. I slide off and, unable to find somewhere to tie up the horse, simply pat him and hope he remains close by. There is a different smell out here – one of dirt, bodies, rotting vegetables, and yet I can smell flowers and the ripe fields and the nearby woods. I enter this particular shack – there is no such thing as a lock here – and stand in a single, filthy room, a harsh smell of unwashed everything coming over me. There is a slight shuffle in the corner, and a gruff, drawling voice barks,
"Who's-dere? Get ou'!"
"Don't bother standing, old man, you'll break something," I say.
There is silence for a moment, and then the same voice says, though this time it's clear and healthy-sounding, "You couldn't wait for a reasonable hour? I am, after all, an old man. I don't assume you were talking about me breaking possessions, by the way." He laughs to himself and continues, "Well, sit down on something. I have nothing to drink but rancid water, and nothing to eat but rotting ears of corn. Do you find yourself hungry?"
I refuse his facetious offer and take a seat on a table that also doubles as a chair when the occasion arises. I hear him hobbling around for a few more moments before he comes and sits at the foot of the small bed, across from me. The moonlight spills through the tiny window onto his face. It is narrow, covered by a dirty head of hair and beard. There is a surprising absence of wrinkles and blemishes on his old, weathered face, and his dark eyes shine brightly through the mask of age.
"Well," he says, "there is no light. It is, after all, the middle of the night, and light would arouse suspicion. More than two months since you've come. And what has happened with your brilliant scheme? I suppose you are now the head of the Oligarchy – in my home!"
"You know the answers to that," I say, quite sharply. "You were right; there were too many holes in the plans. I counted too much upon luck and too little upon strategy and the foolproof plan."
"And so," he prods, his voice gentling now, "what are you left with?"
I sigh. "A pregnant, highly naïve half-wife whose only wish is to live in her own world. Most of my men have been scattered. There have been three casualties. I've lost my most valuable seat in the Oligarchy thanks to this 'wife.' And now I am simply waiting."
I see him nod, shadows cast on his face. "Sometimes time is the only thing you can obtain. And so – this half-wife of yours. What value is she?"
"Tremendous," I say, stretching my aching limbs and yawning. "She is lawfully married to the head of the Oligarchy – Raoul. But I also wed her by their own clerk, and now she is pregnant. This is her first."
There is a silence for a while. "You must keep her, I think," says the old man. "I would think that, while she is alive, Raoul is unable to marry someone else and have children. You will keep her alive for the precise reason that he knows you will. He knows you are not stupid enough to simply toss her out into the streets."
"There is nothing I desire to do more," I say, sounding more bitter than I intended.
"Ah, what has she done?" he asks, sounding amused. I run a finger over my mask, and he watches for a moment before saying, "She took off your mask?"
I nod.
"And you're angry about this?"
Slightly taken back, I nod once again, and he laughs,
"Why ever should you be? It's only natural. Your mask is not exactly a secret. Good heavens, I took off your mask. It will happen, Erik, time and time again. You probably frightened the poor creature to death. And do you think she will want to stay when you are found? She will willingly return to Raoul when given the choice. And yes, Erik – " for I had opened my mouth to interrupt " – I say when, not if. I would keep a close watch on the neighborhood in which you live. And so, what is your next step?"
I resist an urge to glare at him. He has always been like this. He will tell me what to do and then ask what I will do. Perhaps there is purpose in it, but I have never enjoyed answering this question. What is your next step? He knows perfectly well that I will do what I think best, but his advice is always there, as is the question. What is your next step?
"I will put a watch on the neighborhood, as you suggested, and I will…try to be kinder to Christine." The last bit is a struggle to say, but I do so.
"If you are simply going to try, do not do it at all. Do it, or do not do it. Erik, allow me to pose a question: Why do we degrade women so much when everything depends upon them? I think you have also fallen into that trap, the snare of the thought that men are superior to the female sex. But I have seen the strongest, most unbreakable spirits that reside in the soft form of a woman. Do not judge her so."
With an irritated sigh, I rub my exposed cheek. The purpose of my visit was not to discuss Christine. But, then again, my conversations with him have never gone the way I intend.
"I see the dawn," he says, and I look out of the small window to see the smallest sliver of light breaking through the sky. I stand and thank him for the visit before stepping outside. The horse has wandered down a few shacks, and I mount quickly and gallop back to the house, racing the light. The morning air stirs and refreshes my tired, foggy mind. When I near the city, I slow the horse down, afraid its clattering hooves might waken some of the more curious inhabitants.
The sun is still climbing over the houses when I walk inside. There is silence – perhaps a good sign. To my surprise, I find Khan sitting in the front room. Christine is on the couch, fast asleep with a small blanket tossed over her.
"She refused to go to bed," says Khan, and I turn to look at him. "She insisted on waiting for your return to speak with you." He smiles a little. "As you can see, you were gone quite a while, and she has had a bit of excitement." There is an almost uncomfortable pause. "She told me what happened," he finally says, his smile slowly tilting downward to a frown. "She cried for a very, very long time and kept apologizing to you, even when you were gone."
"Yes, I'm sure," I say nastily. "I believe she was sorry she took it off and saw, not sorry for me."
Khan sighs heavily, turning to look to the window. He stands, still not looking at me, and says, "I think I will leave you to brood and drown in self-pity by yourself. But I hope you remember, Erik, that she is your wife, and she is a person with real feelings."
I roll my eyes as he leaves and take his chair. However, as my gaze wanders to Christine, I cannot help but begin to feel ashamed of myself. She shifts on the small couch, and the blanket slides off. I stand and drape it back over her again, unable to help the small smile that comes to me as I see her in trousers and a shirt. After a moment, I return to my seat and await the conversation she so insists upon.