“Ashia Vazdev!” It was a stranger's voice, shouting a stranger's name.
The roughness of the Zaatian accent made the little girl in a faded blue dress recoil, dreading the punishment that she would most surely get for being a chatterbox.
“I am sorry Mr. Faughn.” The words came out in a small whisper, barely audible, and her posture changed within seconds — head bowed down low, making the long and disheveled ebony hair form a curtain around her flushed cheeks; sweaty palms pressed together and in two nervous fists, awaiting the flogging that disobedient children deserved for being little brats.
“Left arm stretched, palm up.” The tetchy teacher mumbled, almost annoyed, as he put down the chalk and grabbed the atrocious ruler from a nearby table in which an old and shredded map of Zaatis was rolled out so that the children could explore the faded sketches of their country.
In advance of the spanking, her first instinct was to close her eyes and think of her mother’s soft voice patiently explaining ways of escaping these moments of pain that she could not run from. To prevent, according to her mother, any ‘accidents’ from happening, she taught her how to get her mind off of the ache of her burning hands and any other kind of pain. Yet, the most effective method was a little needle safely wrapped and tucked away in one of the dresses’ pockets.
While one hand was being firmly held by Mr. Faughn’s calloused ones, the other had found its way to the long needle and, grasping it tightly, the child dug a hole in her thigh, hissing at the prickling sensation that spread through her muscles at the same moment that the wood ruler hit the soft skin of her palm.
Soon, however, she was not able to feel either the throbbing pain in her scarlet hand or the stabbing sensation in her leg. Instead, she chose to focus on her surroundings — on the uneasy breaths of her classmates as they watched the event in mortified silence; on the flickering lights of the rusty oil lamps and, especially, on the hushed voices of life just outside of those fetid and crumbling walls where a small school had been built on the city that was now a refugee camp that stood each day larger at the shores of the Deep Sea.
With her mind far, far away in the sounds of seagulls and sailors on the harbors, she did not even acknowledge the moment when the flogging stopped and the teacher stepped away in order to put down the disciplinary instrument and dismiss the class for the day. The child sighed in relief and put on her worn wool coat over her thin dress before hurriedly grabbing her satchel to get out of that horrible place.
She did not look back as her little legs carried her through the streets of Zaatis. She always took the same route home after school, roaming through the rowdy market, dodging the wagons, the fishermen and the beggars. Those were the ones she bumped into with a certain frequency.
Her mother had told her that, past the vast ocean, stood a country named Osar, where a monster was laying waste to their cities and devastating their lands. Due to that, many of its citizens were now fleeing to other places seeking refuge from the feared shadow army. And that was the reason why their city was now a popular haven for those in need who sought some luck on the horizon. Unfortunately, most of them ended up starved and cold on the streets, dying from some kind of disease.
Past the bustling market and harbors, Ashia spotted her small home from the other side of the street and ran towards the heat of the hearth and the sweetness of her momma's famous cakes that she loved so much, thick with cherries and served with sweet cream. Her mother always made sure to have a batch of her favorite cakes ready for her at the end of the day.
“How was school today, love?” Her momma gave her a brief but warm smile before returning her attention to the old fisherman and his injured arm that was bleeding all over the wood table he was perched on.
That was just one of the things that she loved the most about her mother: her magical hands. Warm and delicate as they took all the pain away. Ashia was constantly telling her mother that she was a fairy, gentle and magical like a spirit of the woods. The woman always smiled at the innocent words of the child before kissing her forehead.
“It was okay.” Of course, Inessa knew that was a lie. She had spotted the scarlet hand and the little red dot on the blue dress as soon as the child was through the front door. As Ashia shrugged her bony shoulders, she had the confirmation. Unfortunately, she could not change the Zaatian teaching methods. Not without causing a ruckus. And it was not like any of the other parents cared that much as long as their children learned their letters and enough math to help at home. However, she could always spoil her sweet girl at the end of the day.
“Mhm, okay then. Go put your bag away and wash your hands. There's a fresh batch of cakes waiting for you in the kitchen. Eat while I finish here.” Those words were like music to the child's ears. She left when she heard her mother switch from the common tongue to the Zaatian dialect so that she could explain what she was doing to the scared-looking fisherman.
She grabbed one of the cakes in her good hand and took a huge bite, closing her eyes so that she could savor them better since the pleasing explosion of sweetness only lasted a few moments before leaving a bad taste on her tongue. It was always like that. Ashia loved her sweets and ate as much of them as she could but they always left a bad taste in her mouth afterwards.
After decimating three cakes, she drank an entire glass of water, trying to wash away the sad bitterness that followed the sweet flavor of cherries and sugar. In that instance, her mother entered the kitchen, carrying a small leather bag where she kept all the coins she got from her job. Inessa's gifts were well known in the harbors of Zaatis and a lot of people came to her asking for help so, in time, her small living room was converted into a simple infirmary where she could practice her craft and do what she loved most: heal those in need.
Without having to ask, Ashia extended her injured hand and, a gentle brush of her momma's fingers and a tickling sensation later, all the redness and pain went away. Inessa did the same on the child's tight, healing the needle wound. After making sure that her little girl had no other injuries, she opened her arms wide and Ashia flung herself into her mother's comforting embrace that always smelled of herbs, sea and sugar.
Ashia smiled against her mother's heart, wrapping her arms around the woman's shoulders more tightly.
Inessa closed her eyes and ran a hand down her daughter's dark hair and small back, feeling that familiar sensation of security that washed over her every time she touched the girl's skin. However, that feeling had long since stopped frightening her. With some effort, she pulled away and stood up, still clasping hands with Ashia, who, now she noticed, still had some crumbs on her dress.
Before she could remark on that, loud knocks sounded on the front wooden door. Frowning, Inessa left a curious Ashia in the kitchen and went to answer the door. Her heart froze the moment she touched the metal door handle as if a ghost had swept past her like a strong wind, rocking her safe foundations with an unexpected storm.
As soon as she opened the door, she wished she had been born with a heart of stone for she was not ready for that inevitable moment to come so soon. Inessa gasped, feeling her lungs struggling to breathe as she beheld what waited within the dark clouds. And, oh saints, she wished she had ignored the person on the other side of the door even if she had to stand there for eternity, staring at the door and contemplating the end of her world.
Because even in peasant clothes, wobbly legs and looking like she had just crawled her way out of hell, the woman that stood on the front porch was unforgettable for her white hair gleamed in the moonlight like the most beautiful pearls found at the bottom of the sea. As she looked into those dark and haunted eyes, echoes of screams and cries in a small cottage almost six years ago swarmed Inessa's mind and she barely had time to compose herself before the woman opened her mouth, eyes almost feverish with determination.
“The war is over. I came for Akasha.”
And just like that, the girl's mother had spoken.
