Under the Willow Root

Chapter 8

"Are you really sure that a floor can't also be a ceiling?"--M.C. Escher

The city is beautiful. Even though each building we pass brings me closer to enslavement, I can't help but marvel. Everywhere I look there are elegant archways and delicately curved rooftops, all in pale pinkish stone. Flowers and vines spill from windowsills, and it seems like every other block we pass through a courtyard decorated with marble statues and fountains.

People bustle about in colorful costumes, conducting business and laughing with friends. There are street performers everywhere. There's dancing, singing, acrobatics—there's even a puppet show. I don't remember much about the other towns we passed through, but I'm sure they were nothing like this. This is amazing.

I notice that ours is the only wagon in sight. Everyone else goes along on foot or born aloft on litters carried by slaves. The sight brings me right back down to earth. That's what I'm here for, I remind myself. All this beauty is for other people to enjoy, not me. I close my eyes rather than look at any more pretty things that will almost certainly never be mine.

We continue along what seems to be the central avenue. There's a slight incline which becomes more pronounced as we move deeper into the city. I remember how it had looked from above, how the city seemed to climb up the side of the mountain. The people around us now aren't bustling so much as gently puffing. For a moment I console myself with the thought that at least I don't have to climb the hill myself. Small blessings. Miniscule, even, but I'll take what I can get at this point. Then I see another litter go by carried by panting slaves and even that small consolation turns sour.

We come to a stop outside a plain wooden door and the guards let us out, herding us into the building. I realize the men's wagon is gone and wonder when that happened. And then I'm through the door and all thought evaporates as the smell of freshly baked bread hits me full in the face. For half a second, nobody moves, then all six of us throw ourselves forward at the small pile of bread set on a table in the corner. The guards don't stand a chance against us, and they don't try. They just stand back and laugh as we fall on the platter of bread like a pack of starving hyenas.

I don't know who starts it, but suddenly I find myself in the middle of an all-out brawl as we all try to grab as much of the bread as we can. An elbow smashes into my diaphragm and I bend over, wheezing, only to have my eyebrow split open by someone's sharp, bony knee. I look up, furious, and see Pouter smirking at me as she tries to push another girl aside.

With a growl, I yank her back by her hair and take her place, straining to reach past the three girls in front of me. Pouter jabs me in the lower back with something—a fist or a knee, I can't tell—and I gasp in pain. She spins me around and rakes her fingers down the side of my face, drawing blood. Her nails bite so deep it feels like she's ripping my face off. Before I can return the favor, the guards pull us apart and take away what little bread is left.

It's all over in less than two minutes, but the damage is done. I glare at Pouter, who looks disgustingly pleased with herself. One girl has a little blood trickling from her nose and another has a puffy lip, but no one else is as badly off as I am. Blood pours from my split eyebrow. I think it might need stitches. The cuts on my face sting and I try not to think about what might have been under Pouter's fingernails.

The sudden exertion after spending so many weeks barely moving is too much for me. My heart races and I gasp for breath, the air whistling in my throat. My knees tremble, and blood rushes from my head. I think I might collapse. I think of how close I was to eating real food and I let myself fall to my knees.

The man in red (as I still think of him despite the fact that he's now in purple) storms in, yelling something at the guards. He sees my face and all but screams. The red man yells at the guard for several minutes, waving his hands around and getting right up in the guy's face. The guard scowls but says nothing. He waits it out with a muscle ticking in his jaw until the man in red flounces out, then snarls something at a young woman who enters from another door. She sets down the bucket of water in her hands and scurries away.