Under the Willow Root

Chapter 20

I try to ask Sadra about how I came to be here and why I couldn't speak, but my attempts to form questions and her attempts to answer leave us both frustrated. Instead, I pour my energy into learning as much as I can and dancing as much as I can. Ismeni, as far as I can tell, doesn't suspect a thing. She often talks to Dove and me while we work, chattering away about this person's paramour or that person's son's fiance's horrible mother, but it's clear she doesn't expect us to answer her or even understand. It reminds me of the way I used to talk to my dolls when I was little.

As autumn turns to winter, Ismeni begins taking me with her sometimes to visit friends or see a play. I don't like leaving the household. There's too much to take in, and too much happens that I don't understand and can't explain. The unreal lighting at plays, the lamps that burn with no flame or oil, the way Ismeni's outfits and makeup subtly change between one breath and the next, the gravity-defying cakes at banquets...it all seems to just happen, with no cause underlying the effect.

One time I could almost swear I saw a pocket mirror fly to its owner's hand, though I know someone must have just tossed it. Another time I thought I heard Ismeni talking to the air--and the air was talking back. But I know she was just talking to herself, because she can't have been talking to me. Still, the number of times I catch myself imagining things disturbs me a little. I think it must be because I can't talk to anyone but Sadra. Maybe my mind is just keeping itself busy.

The outings aren't all bad, though. In our city, which the inhabitants call "the City of Roses," the arts--beauty itself, really--are revered. Houses, theaters, even market stalls are built in elegant lines and decorated with paintings and sculptures and gardens. At every gathering of friends, there's music and dancing, performed sometimes by hired professionals trained by the same Temple that trained Sadra, but more often by and for each other. I'm tickled to find that Ismeni is a terrible dancer, though she has a lovely voice. When she sings she holds the entire room captive--I've never seen anyone so much as blink until she's done.

At first both Dove and I go on the outings, but soon Ismeni starts leaving one or the other of us behind. It confuses me. If Ismeni needs help, why wouldn't she take both of us or at least choose the more experienced slave--or thrall, which I've learned is the more accurate term.

"Dove is getting old," Sadra says when I ask her. "She bought you to take Dove's place, you know. She only takes Dove to palace functions now. I imagine you'll start going when Ismeni thinks you've learned enough to not embarrass her."

"Old?" I ask dubiously. "Dove not very old."

"Well, she is for a thrall," Sadra said with a shrug. "She must be fifty at least. I've never heard of a thrall living much past fifty-five."

"Why?" I cry, aghast. "Why they die?"

Sadra shrugs. "Why does anyone die?"

"So Ismeni die too? Fifty-five?"

"Don't hope too hard," Sadra says with a snort. "When Ismeni dies, Orean will probably sell you or give you to his sister. Anyway, Ismeni will live long past fifty-five, unless a rival poisons her or something."

"So why Dove die?"

Sadra looks at me curiously. "Oh, I see. That's what you were trying to ask me a few months ago, wasn't it? Or something like it."

At my nod, she continues, "Thralls are different. They just don't live as long. They're not...not real people. That's what everyone thinks, anyway."

"Less than masters," I say bitterly.

"Not just less," Sadra corrects me. "Not. To Ismeni, you are a doll made flesh. Nothing in here. No..." she taps my chest and says something that I gather must mean something like heart or soul. "Thralls can't speak, can't learn more than the most basic of tasks. They're not people."

"But I do," I protest. "I learn. I speak."

"You do," Sadra agrees. "And we have to keep that a secret. People like Ismeni don't want to think that they're doing anything wrong or bad. And I've heard things..."

"What things?" I ask curiously.

"Nothing definite enough to be worth your peace of mind," Sadra says, shaking her head. "We just need to be careful."

We continue our exercises in silence for several minutes before I ask, "If thralls not real people, why look like people? Why bleed like people? Why eat like people?"

Sadra launches into some kind of explanation, but there are too many words that I don't understand. The most I get out of it is something about thralls being made rather than born.

"But I am born," I say indignantly. "I have...had...a mother. Her name Lara. She was person. I am person."

Sadra stares at me like I have two heads, like I'm something unnatural and terrifying. Then she shakes herself. "Forgive me. I know you're a person...but, as far as we know, I'm the only one who does. And we need to keep it that way until we're sure it's safe. I've been trying to find out if there's anyone else like you, or anyone who's heard of someone like you, but...well, I haven't found anything yet."

"I am person," I mutter again. Sadra's look of horror flashes across my mind and I feel my chest tighten. "I am a person."

"I know," Sadra says gently. "I know that, Sasha. I'm sorry. Tell me...tell me about your mother."

I explain that I was young when she died and instead tell her about Baba Nadia and my friends. But when I try to explain how I came to be here, my limited skill with the language gets in the way. Frustrated and tired from stumbling through our longest and most complicated conversation to date, I fall into Russian, my first language.

"Ya khochu domoy. I want to go home," I say miserably. "You're telling me that I'm not even a person, that I'm a toy. I hate this place. I want my friends. I want my house. I want my own goddamn clothes. I want my grandmother."

Sadra backs away, looking like I've slapped her. "What did you do? What shadow did you put on me?"

I blink and ask in her language, "What?"

"What were you saying?"

"I talk," I say. "In my language. Russkom. Your language hard."

"Your language?" Once again Sadra goggles at me. "But you couldn't speak before I taught you."

I roll my eyes. "Because I have no voice, I have no words?"

"You're right," Sadra says after a moment with a little laugh. "That was silly. Sasha, there's so much I don't know about you. Hurry up and learn to speak properly, would you? I want to know everything!"

"I try," I promise.