Projet 66

Day 41 : Damned

(30/01/24) 

Pardon my English, but it was fun !

I just never ever imagined that we could be separated.

My memories of my early childhood are sparse, I was left at the orphanage at a very young age, maybe two years old, not much more. I have not one image of the time before. Father Damon says that I must have come for a very poor family, as I was malnourished, dirty and clothed in rags when they found me under the porch, at dawn. It had frozen, that night, and the fact that I had survived seemed like a small miracle. That's why they called me Lumi, which means snow in the old tongue.

I always loved wintertime, it never changed. I seemed immune to the cold, which was a blessing in Kalumka, where the wind is never warm. My friends envied my resilience, I learned later that the adults feared the source of this strange power. Some, among them Martha, the cook, believed that I was not fully human, maybe not at all. But I was a good kid, prone to laughter, eager to please, willing to help, to learn, to work, so their worries were dampened by my good nature. If I were a spirit of the mountain, I was a benevolent one. I never noticed the mistrust that followed my footsteps, they kept it for themselves. I remember only happiness.

Hilja was six when she arrived. They found her on the footsteps of the chapel, silent in a dark robe, her blue eyes reddened by tears. She didn't speak for weeks. She barely ate. She was a prisoner of her own inside world, unable to reach the surface where we were waiting for a sign. Father Damon says that I was the only child not to be put off by her gloom. All the others quickly stopped trying as her mute staring scared them off. I didn't mind. I probably didn't notice. She was trapped in her inner turmoils, I was trapped in my never-ending joy. Sister Roxane says that Hilja put up with my incessant chatter which was, in itself, a feat. But my presence, my fluttering, made Hilja eat, wash, rest and sometimes – sometimes – smile.

So no-one was surprised when the first words she spoke were to me.

I was too young to remember but, apparently, she said : you're wrong.

Just writing it breaks my heart a little.

It would become her catchphrase. You're wrong. I was always wrong. She was always right. I didn't mind. I loved to try things, to pretend, to assert, and she would tell me off like a stupid kid. Our dynamic made the adults frown and wonder. We spent all of our free time together. I made conversation, she listened. I had grand ideas, she brought me back to the ground. I imagined an adventurous future, she smiled and let me rave.

And then we grew up.

Year after year, we made this place home. We didn't care for the bland vegetables, the itchy beds, the deafening noise of the refectory, the smells in the bathroom, the poverty, the closed doors and high walls, the pity of our neighbors, when we saw them on the street. We didn't even care that we had to work, long hours, to sustain the orphanage. And we certainly never thought about being adopted. It would not happen, it never did. Everybody knows that being abandoned means that there is a stain on the soul, it's the punishment for sins in a previous life. We were children but also past murderers, traitors, rapists, who knows ? We deserved to be left alone.

I'm not sure that all members of the staff believed in that reincarnation stuff, but some did, and it showed in the way they treated us. Others cared for us and even loved some of us, I believe. Father Damon. Sister Isobel. Sister Roxane. Their acts spoke for themselves.

We reached twelve, fourteen, sixteen. Hilja and I stayed close, maybe too close for some, who feared what we'd do if we discovered that our bodies could match each other in pleasant ways. I worked at the mill, most of the time. She stayed in the orphanage to care for the younger ones. I knew some of the Sisters had spoken to her about taking the veil. When I questioned her, she just rolled her eyes, laughing. We did not share the same rooms, anymore. Not when we washed, not when we slept. At dinnertime, I was generally exhausted and often got to the refectory as the others gathered the dirty dishes and left.

But we managed, even though we were becoming more and more aware of the chains that restrained us.

— When we reach seventeen, they'll let us leave, I said one night. I'll find work in the city. You could apply for a teaching job, something like that.

— You're wrong.

We had kissed for the first time, several minutes earlier. I had sneaked out of my dormitory, as silent as a cat.

— We are flawed, she said. We are marked.

She reached for the small tattoo that had been itched on my cheek when I was ten, and that revealed my nature.

— Everyone will know what we are. There is no freedom for the likes of us. Not many choices.

I caught her hand, brought it to my lips. She was right, of course, but I didn't want to see it. If I had been a monster in another life, I had no recollection of it. I felt innocent. And wronged.

— We could go elsewhere. There are places where no-one knows what this means.

She rolled her eyes and sighted.

— You're a dreamer, Lumi.

— I have to, for both of us.

And then she laughed softly and everything was fine again. I felt hope. I felt strong. Destiny would be kind.

I was wrong, of course, and she was right.

Horsemen came to the orphanage two days later, looking for recruits. The war with the kingdom of Nirskall had bled the northern regions dry and new flesh was needed, quickly. I was summoned in front of their captain, with two other boys, both younger than me. The man studied us like cattle, felt our legs, our arms, looked at our eyes and teeth. When one of the frightened kids started to cry, he slapped him in the face. I felt anger but also despair. None of the Sisters moved. Even Father Damon stayed silent, watching us get bullied without uttering a word.

Papers were signed and we were herded outside towards a cart where other conscripts were already waiting. Untel then, I had been too stunned to react. I knew my status was poor, but I had never been treated that way, like an animal. They hadn't even asked my name.

So I rebelled, in that courtyard, under light snow. I got kicked but I fought. I was strong, days after days of millwork does that for you. I ended up bloodied on the ground, then they chained me. I was promised the whip, I didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore.

Just before I was hauled up in the cart, a woman bent over my bruised face to wipe away the blood that blinded me. It was Hilja. She softly smiled through her tears.

— I'll find you, she mouthed.

I didn't answer, just nodded.

The soldiers chased her away. I was lifted up, then thrown in the cart. Someone helped me to sit down while the horses started to move. We left as the sky wept for me, the orphanage already a distant shadow.

She would find me. She was never wrong. I had faith.

But first, I went to war.