One
The familiar trundle of my cart’s wooden wheels against the rocky path is like a lullaby, the sound comforting to me despite the groan of protest it gives if I hit a stone too hard. However, these are roads that I have travelled many times, so I know the worst dips and holes to avoid. The last thing I need is for my cart to break when I rely upon it so heavily.
My senses are overwhelmed with the aromatic scents of cinnamon and other spices, mixed in with the not so pleasant smell of livestock from the market that fills the air. In the distance I can hear the call of vendors selling their wears and the general sounds of a population starting the day.
The city is already bustling despite the early hour. A small group of children hurry past me, their harried mothers trying to keep up, weaving through the groups of people hurrying to their places of employment and completing tasks before the day becomes too hot. Already the sun is baking the earth, the reddish soil hard packed and unforgiving, its dust coating the whitewashed walls of the surrounding buildings.
The city of Rune must have been pretty spectacular before the hundred-year drought hit and turned it into a dusty hovel. If you look closely, you can see the signs of an era long gone,broken mosaics and weather-worn decorative arches. Most of the buildings here are two or three stories high, all painted white to reflect the heat of the sun, while the terracotta tiled roofs and balconies add to the distinctive architecture of Rune. Unfortunately, most of this part of the city is in disrepair, so the beauty that was once here is now crumbling and broken. Much like the people who live here.
Ahead, two city guards step out into my path and my breath catches in my throat. The bright scarlet of their uniform is so rich compared to the muted colours the rest of us wear that it’s impossible not to know who they are. Not to mention the shining silver breastplates and swords that glisten under the sun. The fabric alone that is used to make their tunics would sell for enough to buy a family food for weeks.
Watching them parade around the city wearing so much wealth when there are people starving on the streets is enough to wake that familiar anger that dwells deep within me. Like an ember, it simmers, smoulders, growing and dimming but always present. I have to keep a tight control over it, as I fear it wouldn’t take much for that ember to erupt in a blazing inferno, and I’m not sure I would survive when the flames die down. Would I be reborn from the ashes?
That is not something that will be happening today though. Today, all I feel is fear as they march toward me. They’re watching me, eyeing me up and down. In reality, they are probably paying me no more attention than anyone else, but paranoia keeps me constantly alert. Show no reason for them to stop me, keep walking and bow my head as would be expected. A certain amount of deference around the guards is expected, but showing too much angst will just make me appear suspicious.
Putting one foot in front of the other, my heart pounds in my chest and I move my cart to the side, hugging the building beside me and giving the two guards as much space as possible.However, the movement only catches the attention of the guard closest to me. He glances at my covered cart, his eyes narrowing as he continues forward.
My mind instantly goes into overdrive, panic threatening to take over. Somehow, he knows what my cart contains. They’re going to stop me and I’ll be put in the stocks for sure. His attention makes me feel sick to my stomach and I desperately want to pull my veil around me closer, to hide my features and distinctive hair. This will only make me seem more suspicious, so despite my muscles screaming at me to run, I force myself to act with the quiet, reluctant respect that is expected of me.
Time seems to slow as he examines my cloth covered cart, each second stretching for a lifetime. Every step he takes shortens the distance between us, potentially counting down to the last moments of my freedom. His eyes flick up to look at me once more, snagging on my dark headscarf. It is different to most of the silk head coverings worn in the city and is one worn by widows, letting everyone know that is what they are. It’s not a designation forced on them like the bands we wear dictating our social class, but any widow found not wearing a veil would face serious consequences.
Thankfully the guard seems to decide that I’m not a threat. I see the exact moment he comes to this conclusion, his face twisting in disgust, making a point to take a deliberate step away from me.
Widows have very little to offer in the city of Rune. Remarriage for females is discouraged in our faith unless anointed by the gods, meaning that if a woman’s husband dies, she will be alone for the rest of her life. Of course, the rules for men are different, and are encouraged to take second wives if their first dies. Due to this, widows are seen as a drain on society. The only respect they can earn is from the church and are allowed to serve there and give their lives to the gods. Thedark headscarves allow them free access into places of worship and privacy to grieve the loss of their husbands.
Disguised as a widow, no one bothers me, and today it might just have saved my life. Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as they disappear around the corner. A few heavy seconds pass, but I wait, holding my breath and needing to be sure they won’t come back.
Lungs burning, I let out a long breath, my shoulders rolling forward and head bowed. They have gone, they must have believed my disguise. Guards aren’t patient, they would have come back by now if they were just trying to catch me out. Meaning I am safe. For now.
I lower my cart and lean against the wall beside me, hand pressed against my chest as the world spins around me, from holding my breath for so long or my relief hitting me, I don’t know. Nausea crawls up my throat and I must fight to keep my merge breakfast in my stomach. Trembling like a leaf in a storm, I close my eyes and take several long, deep breaths. My own anxiety almost caused my demise. I need to get it under control. No one bothers me or asks if I’m okay, keeping to themselves and pretending that they don’t see my breakdown.
This has been my life for as long as I have known it, and usually I’m not so anxious. Rune is my home and I know every street in the Gutter. However, something has changed within the city. Nothing that can be seen, but a tense, heavy atmosphere has settled over us. Everyone is on edge and the guards have been quicker to act than usual. The stocks on the far side of the market have never been so full as the accused await their judgement.
Pulling myself together, I run over the reasons that I’m here in my mind. This helps settle my resolve, my breathing becoming steady and even. Resolution fills me, making me strong. Visualising it like a shield, I imagine my determinationflowing over my body, wrapping around my chest and limbs and becoming unbreakable.
Pushing away from the wall, I brush down my veil and tunic and pick up my cart once more. With a deep breath, I pass under the crumbling decorative archway that leads into the square marketplace.
Right in the centre is the grand fountain. A huge golden statue of the founding king of Rune raises high above us all, the grotesque wealth of it an insult to the majority of the city who fight daily to feed their families. Many are gathered around the fountain, but not to look at the grandeur of the statue. Instead, they drink from the large basin, the water pumped through the fountain one of the only clean water sources in the Gutter.
In Rune, the wealthy live in an area known as Hilltop, aptly named thanks to the large hill our city is built upon. The palace sits at the top, watching over us all. Beneath that is the gated Hilltop community, before reaching the rest of the city, known as the Gutter.
There are plenty of wells and fountains higher in the city. From the one time I managed to sneak into Hilltop you would never know that we suffer from a drought. They have water everywhere. By the time it reaches us down here it is often contaminated. The few wells we do have down here are controlled by the gangs who are really in control of the Gutter. The fountain in the marketplace is the only neutral space, so it’s often crowded by the desperate who are risking the ire of the guards if they are caught.
The stalls around me are filled with various wares, ranging from food and livestock, to silks and clothing, woven baskets and more. It’s a bright, riot of colour and smells, the calls of vendors and chatter of animals a cacophony of sound that makes it difficult to distinguish between them.
Keeping my gaze straight ahead, I make my way through the market, searching for a space where I can park my cart and set up. The busy space is cramped and I will struggle to find a good spot. I should have gotten here earlier. There’s a familiar twinge in my stomach that has nothing to do with my hunger and everything to do with my anxiety of what I’m doing, but there are no other options.
The designation band on my arm is covered, and that in itself is enough to get me arrested. None of my fellow vendors will rat me out to the guards if they notice, but my close call just now has me on edge. There are four entrances to the market, and although the better pitches are further in, I choose a space by one of these exits. I’m feeling flighty today and I want to be able to run if I need to.
The gems in my cart hum quietly, as though agreeing with my thought process. This is a sound that apparently only I can hear, their song telling me exactly what type of gem they are. I set up my stall and I can feel the eyes of the other vendors around me. They disapprove of my presence, both because I am dressed as a widow, and because of what I sell. I hear the whispers that follow me, calling me a witch, that my gems are cursed. If someone was to accuse me of using magic, I would be locked in the stocks and killed for my transgressions before I could pray to the mother goddess for protection.
There are many rules in Rune, laid out by the gods and our royalty, all of which carry their own punishments if broken. However, there are two key sacraments that we all live by. Firstly, our gods see into our hearts and choose a designation for us, which is marked with a band at adolescence. It is illegal to try and remove, disguise, or hide your band.
Secondly, magic is seen as an affront to the gods and a stain across the land, as such, it is outlawed. The punishment for being found guilty of using magic is death.
Of course, most of those who have been put to death for this over the years are either innocent or fools, as magic disappeared from this land long ago. That doesn’t stop some from attempting to bring it back, but most of us live in fear of being accused. The kingdom has more of a kill first, ask questions later, approach.
Like the rest of the citizens of Rune, I can’t use magic, and most people know the rumours are exactly that. However, suspicions and fear are hard things to ignore, and I take a huge risk by selling my gems. Even if I was to hide my band, I stand out too much. This is one of the reasons I dress as a widow when I bring my wares to the market, it means I become anonymous, the faceless woman who blends silently into the crowd.
