Sugarcane

“Untitled” by Sadie Spletzer

 Sugarcane by Forest Snipes

Naiad had a strange dream last night. She dreamt of dogs with long faces and burning sugarcane. It had impaled itself on her soul. She had dreamt she was a vulture. And the vulture saw it all with its bloodshot eyes. It had seen the clear turquoise waters and erosion smoothed rocks. It had seen the sunlight filtering softly through Ginko trees, into the liquid. It had seen the ripples of the water's skin, but most of all it had seen the nude girl. Her deep mahogany skin cut through the green and blue as she propelled herself farther down, scissoring her legs slowly. She remained under for an unusually long time. Over the time it would take most to choke on water filled lungs and float, spine up, back to the surface. A death without dignity. Her head breached the water and slick black tendrils of hair plastered themselves to the nape of her neck as she swam to shore. The water made its hollow plops of movement as she did so. She climbed back onto wet rock that Naiad most definitely would’ve slipped off of if she in consciousness had tried to imitate. Then the dream, in the often strange way that dreams do, dropped down into another dimension of itself. In this version of the dream she just noticed the creature’s fine fur. It was shag length and floated as if still underneath water. When it moved its steps rippled behind it in drapery. The fineness of the wispy fur is the last thing she noticed before she’s shaken awake by a pair of cold firm hands. 

A timeless winter had taken shape inside of Naiad. Where the cane could no longer withstand the cold and withered away, she had remained for years eating cold cornbread mush out of troughs and being whipped for not harvesting quickly enough. She had always been a person who looked “too deep” into someone or something. That’s because she realized from a young age there’s more than what meets the eye for most things. For example: When Master Postle called her into his study late at night for company and tea he was more interested in her prepubescent body than the sweet drink. And that when Overseer James hit her it was more for his pleasure than her punishment. The morning she woke from her dream she found her empty stomach had dropped into an endless limbo. The hands that woke her belonged to Zara, a beautiful girl who had seen the worst of Master Postle nightly summons. 

“Wake up, love.”

Naiad rubbed the little sleep she had gotten from her eyes and slowly stirred. Zara gave her a moment.

“I was dreaming.” Just now in the quiet pre-dawn cold could she notice how circular Zara’s mouth was. Her nose was flat. Her earth brown skin was dewy and in the back of Naiad’s mind she wondered what it would taste of.

“What’d you dream about?”

“I can’t remember,” she lied.

Zara gave her a look and indulgingly dropped the subject.

“Come on, we need to get tea leaves from the Grand house. We can say we were making the fire for Miss Postle to wake up to.”

                                                                  ***

Zara’s hands moved like clockwork, as if she’d stolen from the kitchen hundreds of times and knew exactly how much you could take before being caught. She scooped the rounded teaspoon of leaves into a low rimmed jar and grabbed the kettle from the fire just before it started to scream, pouring a mentally measured amount into the glass. She pronounced it proudly to Naiad, 

“Drink it,” she said smiling. She reaches but Zara pulls the glass back sharply before she can take it, “Wait” The tea laps over the edge onto her hand where a berry red blotch began to bloom even against her dark complexion. She winces loudly before a wide eyed Naiad clamps a palm over her mouth. They waited a moment in the kitchen that was more for serving than for use. Most of the meals were prepared in a separate shed behind the Grand house, next to the slave quarters they’d come from. This room was for small goods’ storage. Bread, fruit, and tea.

“Now drink it.” She whispered, muffled against the skin of Naiad’s palm. 

Naiad consumed the drink in large gulps without pause before mock slamming it down on the wooden island they stood around. Zara gave her a smile and shove, both soft, before poking her finger inside the glass.

“You’re not supposed to do that!” The shadow on the wall’s neck stuck forward in protest.

“I’m making it clearer!” Before Naiad could disagree she continued, “I see,” pause, “‘New Start’ ‘Caution’ ‘Water’ ‘Oblivion.’ Be cautious of new bodies of water I guess.” 

Suddenly, Naiad felt what she could only guess was a feeling most people would call homesickness. It gripped her with the panicky strength of a poor swimmer and Naiad missed a place she had not yet left. 

Two days later she killed her master. Bashed his skull in. She felt his soul travel through hers to purgatory as she stood above his corpse, the stack of bloody marble coasters in the same palm that had been used to caress Zara’s lips only days previous. His head was sunken in at an revealing angle that would’ve made Naiad throw up if not for the hate in her heart. Grey, pink, and maroon organs smashed together underneath the split white bone. She didn’t feel guilty. In fact, before she stepped over his lifeless body on her way out the back door she helped herself to Miss Postle’s pants, riding boots, and blouse. All of which were higher quality than the slave’s rags she had previously worn. She left without saying goodbye. 

***

Two days passed before Miss Postle returned home and by then a horrid smell had developed in the study. It took two more days of the stench before anyone entered the room, as it was strictly forbidden by all except by request. When the doors finally opened and the grand prize revealed Miss Postle collapsed into shrieking hysterics. As is customary when you see the pink and grey remains of a mystery man on your husband’s study floor. Crushed head resting next to the coffee table’s bloodied corners.The coroner confirmed that though hard to identify through the process of elimination it was, indeed, Sebastian Postle. But by then Naiad was nearly four towns over. On the fourth day a count of the slaves for auction and division was held and when Naiad was nowhere to be found, Miss Postle put two and two together. Posters of her likeness were spread and a small fortune is offered for her return. It was the first time she’d seen herself outside of silverware reflections but apparently she was a cool toned person anyways. Dark skin, grey tangled hair, fading eyes, a broad nose and sad lips. The poster  specified she was wanted alive and Naiad instinctively knew it was so she could be made an example of. First they would tie her tight to the flogging pole and whip her until her back looked like raw torn hemming. Then they would rape her. Again. Publicly. Burn her alive and hang the body. Not only had she ran away, but she had murdered a man who would posthumously undergo canonisation.

Against the early morning sky’s dim light blue she ripped down another poster of her likeness and reward. The parchment was nailed to a tree next to a Dragonborn rebel wanted for political assassination. She ripped that one down too for good karma. After a decade-long power struggle and many attempted assassinations of the dictator, the Lyrian Empire had finally been decapitated. Here it slumped, without head, as it’s former allies looted the body. Once the Gurei, nomadic merchants and notorious gossipers, spread the news as was inevitable, cavalry from neighboring lands would come to carve up whatever could be taken while the body was still warm. The same way children devour fist sized chunks of cheese off the wheel with their bare hands. It had been five days since Naiad last ate. Her body punished her with a swollen belly and throbbing mind that made it hard to think of anything other than meat. Hunger was both her bane and motivation as she hobbled into town. The stolen coin purse swung at her side, thumping against the thrusting hip bone as she walked. Through the spindly bushes and erosion made path something tracked. Slinking behind the fugitive as she stomped through brush to the warm glow of a tavern.

The Blue Boar Inn was healthily full. Naiad ordered and inhaled two servings of meat and potatoes as she watched a woman in shimmer green and maroon belly dance for silver pieces. Her smoky eyes and voice reminded Naiad of dusk.

I know this is the most right I will ever be

Tonight as I lay down to sleep and dream,

  of dogs with long faces and grass stains, 

If only you knew what I knew:

With age comes wisdom and wisdom comes with age, 

Palindromes are exhausting 

But you will always be the same.

Naiad turned the woman’s song over in her mind, staring into a clear plate. A strange warmth had begun to wallow on her. The hot fritz of stares stung the nape of her neck. She looked up. A male dwarf and his human companion looked intently on their empty table and continued a hushed conversation. Her eyes cut across the room. First left, then right. It wasn't just them, people had been looking at her. Why? Her jaw clenched. The posters. Everyone in this tavern was two meals from squalidry and in delivering her they would ensure themselves plumpness and warmth. The tables were nicked from wear and the bear pelt rug has been discolored from patrons over the years. The familiar smell of ale and drunks filled the air. She counted out what she hoped was an accurate nine silver pieces and left them on the glossy wood for the bartender to collect. She didn’t wait for her change.