EXHAUSTED
I don't have much feeling
on matters that rock
my mind, still it's reeling
from whatever in the fock
rhymes are too much work
when thoughts won't sit aligned
my memories are scattered mess
to fate's new grand design
I could have been much more
I should have just stayed home
nay, never do I think again,
I'll ever try to roam.
* * *
In the morning, The Huntress saw what I did to her father, and wept.
They weren't tears of joy. The drunken guards gave us space, thanks to
The Prince's diplomacy – he'd explained to them that whatever was The
Chief's now belonged to his daughter, which included their unfinished
fortress.
I knelt to the ground, next to The Huntress, and rubbed her back. "I'm sorry," I spoke softly.
She could barely speak. "It's better than what he deserved. But I deserved more."
The Prince wasn't doing much better. He was leaning on a wall, shaking his head.
"She got away," he kept whispering to himself. "All of this, and she gets out clean."
I looked to him. "But wasn't your mother sold?"
He closed his eyes. "To her, all marriage is sale. Nothing will change
for my mother, not a damn thing." Then he sighed, and opened them again.
"You have my respect, you finished the job."
"You needed help," I replied.
He cracked a smile. "Now I see why you wear that skull. You are patient and quiet, like death. A shadow in wait, elusive."
I still felt sick, but what he said made my heart glow a bit. "And I see why she calls you The Prince," I replied.
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean? I AM a prince."
"Yeah, but... never mind." I kept rubbing The Huntress's back, and asked her, "Do you want me to stay?"
She rasped, "No, you don't belong here. You have to go back home, or you won't be soft anymore."
"It's what you're good for," The Prince finished.
I felt rejected. "So what, we tell the kid I was out getting milk?"
"They won't be lonely," The Prince offered. "I'll make them a brother."
She shot back, "Or sister!"
He laughed, low and melancholy. "No, I always make boys. I am strong."
Three days later, I was ready to return to Morocco to sail back to
Europe. The Huntress had mended my scythe herself, using glue made from bones
and tight leather wraps – it was good as new, and even gave my hands a
soft spot to hold it, no longer to chafe on the wooden snath. My riding horse and supplies prepared, I walked over to my
friends to say goodbye. The Huntress, or should I say The Princess,
smiled at me with tears in her eyes, and I saw that a bump was finally
forming in her belly. I kissed her, and rubbed her belly, and bent down
to kiss it, too. Then I offered The Prince a hug, but instead, he made
me kiss him on each cheek, then the lips. Then on the back of his hand.
"Now, my feet," he commanded.
"Yeah, I'm uh... not doing that," I remarked.
He rolled his eyes, "No respect," and grinned. "Go then! Let's hope our
greatness has rubbed off on you, eh?" He waved me away, towards the
horse.
"Let's hope," I nodded.
It took me a week to get back to the city in Morocco known as Tangier. I
rode the horse as long as I could, through light and dark – another
thing The Knight had shown me. Now, my ass was sore, and not for any fun
reasons. I dunno, I was in another flushed mood, wondering what it'd be
like to go further with The Prince and his wife. Call me crass. Then
again, maybe when I returned home, The Knight would be there. But if he
were alive, he ought to have found a wife by now. My altered perception
of myself was a shock that many others had delayed, but as I looked at
the people bustling in the city of stone and sand towers, dotted with
holes in grid for windows, I saw that none of them looked like me – nor
felt like me to look at. Men were harder than me, women were softer.
Sure, some women were tough, and some men were skinny and pretty of
complexion, but I was my own kind of animal. As I tied up my horse next
to the bank, I noted that because of my thin facial fuzz and round hips I
was easy to mistake for a woman from some angles, as well as a man from
others. I was both, and neither. I might look down forward and see my
manhood, but as I adjusted my cloak and pouches, the greasy vagabonds
behind me looked down and snickered at my blossoming bottom. They
whistled at me, and when I turned to face them in mask, they ooh'd.
One, with a sweaty mustache, growled, "Oh, I like 'em mysterious! Come 'ere, woman, sit with me. Sit in my lap!"
Another hollered, "IS THAT YOUR LAST BOYFRIEND, THERE? THAT SKELETON ON YOUR FACE? HAHAHA!!"
I gritted my teeth, flipped up my mask, and gestured to my fuzzy upper lip like I was sealing an envelope.
They sneered. "Is that it? My wife has a thicker beard!"
"That don't scare us!" one called out.
I shook my head, and walked into the bank. Then I searched my pockets
for coin to exchange, and found them empty of any metal at all. I'd
spent it all getting here, had little to trade, and needed fare to sail,
or risk being thrown overboard for stowing. Given the way my body had
been changing, worse could yet occur, and I knew from trying how
ill-suited I was for it. I walked back outside.
The greasy men
clapped. "She returns! Girl, let me break you in, it's only a little
blood. There's more where that came from, isn't there?!" They cackled
like hyenas.
I rubbed my brow, in awe of how uncharming these
people could be. I guess the pleasantries I'd witnessed here before were
seasonal. It was winter now, at least back home, though in Northern
Africa it only meant another layer of clothing, and some fog.
I
untied my horse, and left it at a stable. I told the hands they could
have it for a small sum. They gave me a few coins, but not enough for
the quartermasters' fee. For how tired the horse was, I was lucky they
took it. I wandered the city, looking for signs of a struggling
shop-keep who was over-worked and understaffed, my boots dangling at my
back in rhythm like always: ba-dunk, dunk, dunk, ba-dunk. I bought a
pair of sandals using the coin I'd just got, to protect my feet from
broken glass in the sand, though many other pedestrians simply ignored
it and walked around, or pretended they were never cut. Opportunity for
me wouldn't look like it did for others: I was too weak for hard labor,
and too strong for social callings. I came to a quieter part of the
city, looking mostly for refuge from the crowd. There, I spotted a
bakery, and was lured in by sweet smells. I saw loaves and rolls of
wheat and barley, oats decorated on top. They were shiny with oil, some
with glaze, some with seeds and sliced nuts layered over them, and some
with toasted meat poking through. Everything looked delicious. The Baker
herself, middle-aged but unwrinkled, was hurrying from one task to the
next, dropping spoons and cursing at herself for it. Flour was spilled,
buns were burning in the stone oven, and boxes were too heavy for her.
Perfect.
I smiled, and leaned on the counter. "Need a hand? Because I'm looking for work."
She didn't hear me, and said, "Just one minute, sir, I'll be right with
you." She turned away, her curly brown hair in ponytail dangling behind
her. She was Polish, I think, maybe Slavic, although Morocco and
Mauritania both suited her short nose and large lips, as well as her
thick, dark eyebrows, pointed like knives. A mixed moor, like me. Her
baggy blue eyes darted from one spot to the next, and she rushed herself
to dig for a small measuring cup in a wooden box of many. Her curves
rounded her on all sides below the neck, but her form suffered none, and
was actually quite appealing. Her butt somehow ate her dress in a way
that put me off, but made passersby stop and gaze, and her apron did
nothing but frame it. Not my taste, exactly, but I could see that her
business relied on more than just her baking. Still, she was stressed,
and running low on finished goods, her puffy cheeks red with shame at
herself.
I knocked on the counter, "Sorry, I said I'm LOOKING FOR WORK, ma'am."
She faced me with a sneer. "I don't need a reaper, I buy flour from the ships."
I responded quickly, "By trade, I reap, but I'd like to try baking. You look... overworked, and I need fare to sail home."
She scoffed, "Honey, this ain't for the faint, nor a man like you. It's women's work, honest and true."
"I'm neither man nor woman," I shrugged. "And I don't eat bread, so you won't lose any to me."
She actually laughed. "So how're you gonna know if your baking's any good?"
"I'll follow your instructions, and let you taste it."
She paused. "Well... my daughter just quit, tell the truth. Ran off to Portugal with some dupek I've never seen, fuckin' pirate or something. Had a
mask like yours there, a skull. Are you him? Are you a pirate?" She
looked me dead in the eyes.
I put my hands up, defensively. "I'm not a pirate, and I don't know your daughter. May I bake with you?"
She squinted, and stuck out her tongue. "Fine, come in around the
counter, put an apron on. And take off all your black shyte, you won't
want it stained cloudy."
I discloaked, wrapped it around my scythe, and put them both in her pantry along with my pouches. Then I tied an apron on.
She froze, finger in air. "Not a girl or boy, what is that?" She was
looking in the distance, trying to search her recall. "Are you a
lady-boy? Do you dress up for fun, like a stripper?"
"Uh... no, I've never done that. I'm just somewhere in-between, that's all."
After that, we got baking. She showed me how to measure, which
ingredients made dough dry or wet or rise, how many eggs to use and for
what. How to whip sugar, cream, and egg into frosting, and how to spread
it. At each step, she'd dip her finger in and lick it with only slight
caution, and decree:
"Yep, it's good. To the letter, not bad."
Except, of course, when I did something wrong, and she'd sigh and
wrestle the spoon and bowl from me to do it herself. Then she'd hand it
all back, and say, "Like that, love. Don't slack now, put your arms into
it."
"You want me to put my arms in the bowl?" I posed, confused.
"NO!" she cried. "Smartass. Use your strength, put in the effort, now. We don't have all day."
Then, while she lined the wooden trays on a shelf, I was to count coins
and bag orders. I couldn't believe how hard it was to count under
pressure quick, nor how much the stress of it all made my hands fumble
coin, paper, and buns, despite them having drawn vicious blood not a
couple weeks prior. Our most popular item was the beet-roll, a pink
swirly ball of baked dough with a drizzle of white icing. The color
attracted customers of all kinds, who'd then look for loaves and snacks
to take home to their families. On my break, I was allowed to eat a few
boiled beets, after cutting the mold and squishy sick from them. I
noticed there were no other food stalls next to us, no shouting and no
dreary slave auctions. This was a calm, peaceful neighborhood full of
people, who lived on all other sides of the street. The Baker was like a
mother to them, kindly holding their hands when she took their coin,
smiling as she bid them a good day. Men, women, and children alike met
her at the counter's gate for a big, long hug, and she'd pick up the
children and soothe them with her voice. Then she'd give them a baked
scrap from a basket of failed confections, their recipe or shape
improper for sale, and the grateful neighbors would bite down with an
'mmm', and be on their way. Curious, I tried a piece, figuring I could
withstand the rash for a few hours. Even the scraps, salted and
buttered, were as heavenly and hearthy as anything could be.
I
stocked a firewood shipment into a box next to the stove. The Baker was
rolling leftovers into paper, putting them into boxes, and storing them
on the shelves in the pantry. Next, we swept the place up and washed all
of the dishes, and left them hanging or resting to dry. Finally, after
some more prep work that she'd been putting off, we sat for a few
minutes and enjoyed a cup of tea. Hers was had with a couple biscuits,
mine with a spare ziziphus – the rest of the apple-like fruit, she
planned to use the next day as pie filling. After that, she counted up
her take in the strongbox, and I felt my nerves wrack as I heard the
coins clink together, not knowing what to expect for my work. When she
paid me, I was astonished by how much: a whole pouch, filled to the
brim!
I gaped as I peered into it. "Are you sure?"
She laughed, "Oh, honey, we made three times this today. I owe you, you saved my knickers from twisting beyond sight."
I laughed at her joke, and smiled. "Thank you! I really appreciate
this." I put all of my gear back on, and pocketed the pouch, turning to
walk away and look for a hotel.
She stopped me. "Oy vey, bit rude! No hug?"
I blinked. She held out her arms, and I went in to hug her. She was soft, and it felt nice. It reminded me of my mother, a bit.
"There you go," she said. "You looked like you needed that.
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