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Everyone does their thing at dinnertime, so there’s no gathering for a feast, like at most of the households in Szolen. Meals are served in rooms by servants, who ensure that the dishes are swiftly gathered afterward. My chances of interacting with Madame Beaumont are virtually nonexistent. Mornings are spent reading with coffee, my eyes constantly wary of the men whose glances I catch, when they don’t think I’m looking.
Yet, not a single one acts on whatever compels them to stare.
The girls mostly keep to themselves, which suits me fine, except that they, too, fail to offer much explanation for all this.
Maybe Yasmin is right. Maybe I should be grateful for the few blessings thrown my way.
The place is paradise, after all. An oasis to anyone trying to survive the Deadlands.
I feel like I’m merely existing here, though, biding the time for something I can’t see on the horizon.
As if the world outside this compound no longer exists, everyone here seems to rejoice in odd simplicities. The lazy pleasures of food and drink that are served in abundance, and wasted in a way that belies the surrounding famine.
While life in Szolen is similar in some ways, at least we recognize what’s beyond the wall, and remain fearful for the day our barriers might crumble to something stronger.
The hedonism of this place would have my mother’s knees bleeding from ardent prayer.
I miss her, sometimes. Even if she can be overbearing and unreasonable, her arms were a comfort when I felt lost.
Except when my father died. The tragedy somehow stiffened her embrace, turning her colder.
I daub the drops of water from my skin and wring the saturated hem of my T-shirt. Having grown up with a nearby lake, I’m accustomed to swimming, and enjoy the freedom to do so during the afternoons. But while the others swim topless, I opt for a long T-shirt that not only covers my body from prying eyes, but also protects my skin from the blazing sun that bears down in an endless beam of agonizing heat.
“You’re enjoying my home, I see.”
At the sound of Madame Beaumont’s voice, I spin around, eager for the opportunity to talk to her again. “It’s comfortable.”
“It pleases me to hear that. I’d like you to accompany me on my next excursion into the city.”
City? What city? “When might that be?”
Fanning herself, she plops down on one of the poolside lounge chairs beside me. “A few days from now. Once every six months, we gather in the great stadium. Men from hives in the far north come, bringing treasures for a chance to spend time with my girls. You’ll come along as my guest.”
“What do they gather for?”
“The games.”
“What games?”
“It’s an athletic event, where men show off their brawn and boast the size of their cocks. But for us? It’s a landslide of business. It happens once in winter, and once in the summer months.”
I stare off at where a drop of water on the concrete fades with the sun’s evaporation. “Athletic event. Like the Olympics?”
“You’re familiar with the Olympics?”
“We studied it.”
“I suppose you could say it’s similar.” Hand waving in dismissal, she seems to be impatient with my questioning. “Week’s end. You’ll get to see how these things around here work.”
Finally. And perhaps I’ll get some much needed answers.
* * *
Darkness settles over my room, as I lay on my side, staring out at the swaying palm trees. Admittedly, if this is human trafficking, it’s certainly not the terrifying chained in a cellar stories I’ve read about from before the Dredge. In fact, it’s oddly peaceful.
Nothing like the iron fist of the church, where I was headed for the next five years.
My thoughts take me back to two years ago, and a story the younger sister of one of the girls in my congregation told, about Mother Chilson withholding food when the girl questioned one of her stories about the apostles. For seven days, she was given nothing but water and a single slice of bread.
