Heart Strikes Ten

My feet firmly situated where Kelsa left me, I took in my surroundings. The small room was bathed in flaxen sunlight, as if filtered by a massive tree. The small sky lamps allowed the light in, but not the heat. The slight breeze from the wall aerators cooled my damp skin. Not like the aerators in our muddy huts, when they functioned properly. Those only blew the insulting scorched air. I still couldn’t shift my stunned limbs. Eyes drifting to a corner, a raised pallet nestled between the wall and a table holding a lantern and a small quarto. It was a portrait of comfort. Following the wall beyond the table, I see an opening leading to another area.

I didn’t want to move for fear that the slightest twitch would break the spell and I’d be back in our mud hut, scorching breeze laughing in my soil-covered face. I forced one step, then another. As I reached the opening to peer in, I beheld another comforting scene. The basin, large enough to hold two of our border soldiers, was polished stone. Only the stone knew the men who toiled and bled to achieve its polished surface. Their pain transmuting to my luxury. The feeling of comfort quickly soured at this thought. The washing basin was equipped with drying linens, soap stones, and bathing oils. No doubt, these were products of the Artisans. The Artisans are a group of women who create the luxuries of our land. Art, music, poetry, dancing, clothing for the women and mates, beautifully scented soaps, gourmet recipes to be prepared by the culinarians. None of it to be enjoyed by the men, unless you are a mate. I had only heard tales of these luxuries, never seen them through my own eyes. A sharp knock on the door broke my reverie.

I opened the door to see a runner, the men, or rather boys, who run deliveries. The runner with his gaze down held out a package. Knowing the runner would not move until I reacted, I took the package as I watched him turn quickly and disappear to his next assignment. I carefully placed the wrapped parcel upon the table and opened it. The garments were basic, yet elegant. The shirt and trousers atop were a thin, soft linen that vowed to barricade the sun and its scathing heat. The following set of clothing was also of linen, but much thicker and a sage color reflecting the hue of my eyes with a matching set of slip shoes. The embroidery on each could have only been rendered by an Artisan. This would be my attire when standing in front of the Queens.

Following this cue, I chose the thin, bone-colored linens and headed to the stone basin. Placing them on a sitting stool, I took in the enormous spigot and its lever above the stone bath. As I turned the lever, water rushed forth and began pooling within the stone. The swirling water surged while I stripped from my crusting boots and clothes. Bathing at our encampment involved a sentinel and a hose. One could barely get clean this way. The only clean clothing in our possession is when we first obtain them, whether because our old garments fall apart, or we outgrow them. And they’re only clean the first few minutes of wearing them as we sweat through instantly.

I placed my bare foot into the laden bath, followed by the other, and submerged my remaining body to the stone. It was like nothing I’d felt before. The water flowed and brushed with my movements, sweeping away dirt that has taken eons to accumulate. I watched the color of the water change quickly and realized I would need a second bath or perhaps a third. For now, I let the water engulf me, imagining it will take all my fear and pain with it when it drains. It is not lost on me that the men who broke their backs for this smooth surface are the reason my own is now as smooth and clean. I scrubbed my face and hair with only the water first and watched the water further change to a darker shade of soil.

My second bath was nothing short of bliss. After draining and refilling the stone, I added the scented oil. It smelled of the purple flowering bushes that bees so ardently love mixed with an herb garden. I haven’t always been a tiller and haven’t always worked in the gardens, yet it has been my utmost comforting work of any I can recall. It’s the fragrances. They make me think that the world could be better. Could be different. Could be a place where all are free. A place where women and men are equal, loved, and cared for. A place without ownership, without slaves, without control, without punishing death. The fragrance of flowers and herbs instead of blood and rotting flesh.

The soap stone had the same floral, herbal scent and foamed as I rubbed it to my skin and hair. It produced a silken touch after being rinsed that I never knew my skin or hair could attain. My hair now lacking its usual grit was as shiny as a raven’s. Skin and hair clean, I finally relaxed my weight to the stone and allowed the tension to seep out amid the water. A tension that I feel has always been. I lifted a hand to see that the lines on my palms and fingers were still there, only the color was uniform. Soil still occupied my fingernails but not nearly as much. A few more washes like this and they’d be as clean as they were on my first days in this world.

After a spell, I drained the basin for a second time and wrapped myself in one of the linen panels hanging near the stone. I heard a sharp knock a second time. I opened the door to reveal another runner, this time holding a covered tray. He passed without invitation to set the tray on the table, the aroma trailing in his wake, and swiftly disappeared. My mouth watered instantly as I drew in the inviting scent. Uncovering the tray revealed what looked to be a dish of stew, but none like I’d ever seen. The gruel we had become accustomed to was always an indiscriminate pile of mush, once hot, but by the time we’d gotten it was no longer. A warmish pile of mush. This dish held large pieces of what looked to be root vegetables with a type of meat swimming in a brown, aromatic sauce. Next to the dish was a loaf of bake, browned and crispy. I got to try bake only once as a boy when one of the men in our encampment produced a bag of stolen foods. The bakes were coveted for their flavor and their ability to fill a belly for long spans of time. I often have dreams about eating bake, soaked in a savory sauce. Today, my dream meets reality.

Next to the bake was a small dish of a yellow, creamy mound and a dish of skyberries. There was also a flagon of ale and a jug of water. I’d also once tried a swig of ale as a boy, from the same stash of stolen goods. I wasn’t as impressed with the ale as I was the bake and the older boys all fought over it anyway. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. I’d find out shortly.

I dipped into the yellow substance to see it yield and melt with my touch and tasted it. Its salty deliciousness left zero doubt in my mind that this was the salted cream that I’d heard about. I made quick work of the bake dipped in salted cream with the savory stew. The herbs in the stew recognized only by smell, not name, melded perfectly with the root vegetables and meat. Drinking the ale in intervals, I began to feel a lightness that left me smiling and entirely smitten with my meal. The skyberries were every bit as sweet and succulent as I’d imagined, yet I didn’t anticipate their lingering gratification. I saved a handful of those to be eaten after all else was consumed.

Standing up, I realized my lightness was not only in my head but my body as well. I floated to the nook where I left my linens and dressed. They were soft on the skin, not scratchy like our usual garments when when first receiving them.

I made my way to the raised pallet to sit upon its softness. I lay back, letting the down cloak me in comfort. As my body entirely relaxed for the second time in my life, my body shuttered, and I wept. I wept for what I now knew I would never have. Perhaps it was better not knowing.