Under the Willow Root

Chapter 9

I dream of music, a tune that feels vaguely familiar though I can't place it. I don't move a muscle, but I can feel myself dancing. I can feel it my head. I can't see. It's like the whole world is made up of melody and rhythm and tension. I want to get up and dance for real, not just in my head, but I don't have a body. All I have is the music.

When I wake, I keep my eyes closed and try to hold on to my dream, but the music is shattered by the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. My eyes fly open and I scramble to my feet, pressing myself against the back of the shed. The man in red (now in blue) opens the door and pulls me out. He fastens a rope around my neck but leaves my hands free, which seems silly until I remember that there's nowhere to run.

The man in red tugs the rope and sets off with me stumbling behind. The rope seems more for guidance than restraint. We leave the auction house behind and head downhill. I note with some satisfaction that the man in red isn't important enough to warrant a litter. That satisfaction fades as the brisk walk through the streets makes my breath come fast and my head spin. My heart is hammering against my chest so fast I'm afraid I might actually have a heart attack.

The one positive I can find in my struggle to survive our little stroll is that it distracts me from the disapproving stares of the general populace. They cast irritated glances at the man in red, as if he's doing something crass but not rude enough to warrant any open objection—like dragging a beaten and starving girl naked through the streets is a minor social faux pas. I look at the people on the street and see no compassion or even pity. They look at me like I'm something distasteful and turn away with wrinkled noses in the air.

When we finally stop, I slump, gasping, against a pillar carved with intricate designs. My head swims, making the designs on the pillar seem to wiggle and dance before my eyes. If I had anything at all in my stomach, I'm sure I would throw up. The rope tightens on my neck and I push myself upright with difficulty. The man in red leads me into an alley and thrusts me into a small side door which leads to some kind of store room. He shuts the door behind me, and I'm left in darkness.

A brief manual inspection of the boxes and shelves reveals only old vases and crockery. No food. I sigh. Food was obviously too much to hope for. But clothes, maybe...? No. No clothes. There are, however, some dusty sheets shoved in a corner. I gather them up and arrange them into a little nest. By the time I'm done, it's almost cozy. I settle down to wait for the next atrocity to be endured, staring fixedly at the crack of light under the door.

The man in red appears after several hours and shoos me out into the alleyway where a fat, jolly looking man waits with a skeptical expression. The new man strokes his curled, oiled beard with sausage-like fingers adorned with gold and silver rings. He resembles nothing so much as pig draped in velvet. His flamboyant dress and slimy gaze are completely at odds with the round, rosy cheeks which at first glance gave him the appearance of cheeriness.

The man in red talks rapidly to the fat man, gesturing earnestly. He doesn't seem to be doing a good job of selling the guy on me. He seems almost apologetic. On top of everything else, it stings. Is it my fault that I'm bald and bleeding and crusted with filth? No, it is not. Asshole.

The fat man reaches out and pinches my breast. I stiffen, eyes wide. The fat man looks doubtful and says something to the man in red, flicking a hand at me dismissively. I think about what the fat man must be looking for and cringe, feeling sick and faint. These people can do whatever they want to me and no one will lift a finger to stop them. For a moment I almost consider making a break for it, but the memory of the man who tried to run is still horribly vivid.

The men's haggling is interrupted by a soft voice like windchimes. A lovely woman with black hair and bright hazel eyes peers curiously around the corner. When she sees me, her eyes widen and she marches forward, saying something in a forceful tone and gesturing to me imperiously. The man in red bobs his head in a kind of bow and touches his knuckles to his lips, all the while speaking to the lady in a tone bordering on a whine.

The lady's lip curls in disgust. She snaps out an order of some kind and takes my filthy hand in one of her own. She leads me out of the alley and into the street where several slaves wait with a litter. She ignores it and tows me gently along for several blocks before ushering me through a door that leads to what looks like a large shower stall—sans the actual shower. Instead there are buckets lined along the wall and little pots of sweet smelling powders and liquids.

Some women hurry in with buckets of hot water, and one of them takes a sponge from a nearby table while the others take the empty buckets away. The lady with the sponge dips it into the water and quickly wipes away the topmost layer of grime from my body. The hot water feels heavenly, but having someone scrub me all over—and it really is all over—is uncomfortable and intrusive.

When the worst of of the grime is gone, I'm led through another door to what looks like a small swimming pool. The lady carefully cleans the cuts on my face and scalp and then pushes me into the pool, which I find is filled with warm water. One of the women gently rubs powdery soap into what little remains of my hair, then pushes my head under. The woman kneels beside the pool to give me a good scrub with a long handled brush. When I'm clean, she and the other women sit me down on a stool in yet another room and go to work on my hands and feet, trimming and cleaning my nails and rubbing lotion into my dry, cracked skin.

I even get waxed. In my previous life, I once heard some older girls complain about bikini waxes and how much they hurt. Now I find out for myself that yes, it really is that painful, and horribly awkward to boot. Very hands-on, to say the least. But it's worth it, because they also do my legs and armpits, even my arms. When they're done, they rub a soothing balm into my skin that smells like lavender. They brush my teeth with a kind of bristly cloth, and I almost feel like my old self again.

It's wonderful. I decide that being clean is even better than being fed. I try to smile at the lady to show my thanks and stop, wincing in pain as the movement creases the cuts on my face. The lady frowns and turns to say something to a woman that I hadn't noticed before. The woman is dressed almost as richly as my rescuer, but in plain, subdued colors. I look at her eyes and see a hint of the blankness I've come to associate with slavery. It's not as pronounced as it was in the others I saw, but it's there. The woman nods and leaves the room.

One of the spa ladies gently dries me with a towel and another brings me a robe like the one the other girls wore and the little slipper shoes. They help me put it on and wrap it around me in an intricate pattern that I don't quite follow. When they're done, I feel comfortably secure, like I'm wearing a harness or a seat belt. The shoes are comfortable too, though they don't provide much in the way of support.

The well-dressed slave returns with a little pot of ointment, which she spreads on my cuts. There must be some kind of painkiller in it, because the sting and throb instantly lessen. I see the spa ladies look at each other with raised eyebrows, perhaps surprised that the rich lady would show such care. I'm surprised, too. I can't believe my luck.

My new mistress looks me over, tapping her lips thoughtfully with a perfectly manicured finger, then snaps an order at one of the spa ladies, who hurries away and returns with a length of light, gauzy fabric. She drapes it over my head and wraps it around like a shawl. My mistress smiles and nods approvingly and turns to the door. The other lady slave and I follow, climbing into the waiting litter after our mistress. I wince as the slaves lift the litter, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable at being carried around on people's backs. Then I remember the alternative represented by the fat, oily man and feel only relief.