The Runaway

Soft, sparsely grown flaxen pyramid pointed the way to her Treasure...

...a treasure oft stolen, mis-spent by an unlawful caretaker. Loss. The girl-child, whose very spirit though broken and eternally wedded to this treasure, fled the caretaker's compound. In a desert of fear and shame, she was quickly lost in an uncaring world that had no soul. This desert had first entered her long ago though”years before the time of her first-blood. For she had seen but nine winters when first initiated into the ways of an adult (aahh, the storyteller is crying now).

She was certain that she would die here in this wilderness. Hungry, cold, fearful”always fearful that the caretaker would find her. Always avoiding the Sheriff and his men, lest they be in the employ of the caretaker.

Caretaker? No. No, now the child did know that its proper name was not that. Its proper name was care-robber. Liar. Thief. Oath-breaker. Soul-burner. Loki.

Though the child had oft considered leaving this world, she had never before the resolve to do so. But now, destitute, her shivering reminding her of the emptiness and lack, she thought it an easy thing to simply close her eyes and just lean forward. Yes, let the dizziness take her over the edge. Falling through the soft night of the overpass, a testament to the builder of arches. Gentle rush of deafening noise, the darkness punctuated by speeding twin lights. So many of them. White ones coming to greet her. Red ones waving goodbye. She knew that being so weakened, if she climbed to the stone ledge, the very exertion would carry her over into the night.

But unlike Hagar, adrift in the Arabi with the child Ishmael, there was no angel sent to provide succour. No, rather slavers did find her. Outlaws, masterless brute beasts who were skilled in the capture and training of slaves. In a state of surreal compliance”a euphoria brought on by her embracing of death, she was easily led to the waiting van.

Food. Warmth. Voices. Soft human hands bathing her, whispering secrets that would help her stay alive. The caressing hands belonged to women and girls, who were likewise captive.

Months passed as she learned to enjoy this new form of bondage. Potions made everything better”potions to drink, to smoke, to inhale, to swallow, to inject. This last though was forbidden her by the one who had claimed her as his own. Though she had one certain master, he did allow others to take her. But at the end of the day, she was still his little prize.

Aside from the normal daily duties of washing, cleaning, and cooking, she was also taught as a courier in the business dealings of the group. Though well aware such things were illegal, she had no fear and often hoped that things might go awry, so the men would come to her defense. She didn't understand yet that they saw her simply as property; for the time-being, an asset.

Soon, the dischordant music of this life stirred a repressed hatred in her heart”violence was now a response given and received.

The companionship of the other slave-girls became her only respite. It was at just such a time, that on a humid, over-bright summer day, that the child and a barely older slave-girl sought the shade of the trees. Though no air stirred to comfort them, it was at least out of Apollo's harsh glare. Under the silent witness of the motionless branches, the older one taught the younger a new way. The child learned that she could share her treasure with one who likewise had a treasure to share. Not a taking, but rather a giving. The child cried, knowing now that her treasure was not something to be despised. The older slave taught her how she had the power to place her spirit in the tenderness of her treasure, and likewise to remove her spirit... when thieves came to take it.

"But, they will still have the treasure," the child cried.

"No they won't," the older replied, "For without the spirit, the treasure is nothing. Out there in the witherering sun, the evil-gods do rule. But here, in the nether-shade of the goddess, we, Her daughters, may find comfort. The Creation and our shared love gives us a medium through which we can touch Her."

The child listened attentively as the older girl continued,

"It's a sylvan-gift to Her children. When we willingly share our love, we create an odic magick. It is then that She gives us our wings”and we are free."

The child thought on this; 'Shared love ...willingly given.'

Recalling how only moments before they had shared a kind of tenderness she had never before known, it reminded her of her long dead mother, who would caress her face and kiss her, and tell her how precious she was. And now, in her mother's stead, was an older girl, who likewise being a captive, had become her mentor. Her lover.

And this was a love unlike the other. Her lover took her time. Touching and kissing and tasting. The child revelled in having her eyes, and nose, and face, and ears, and cheeks, gently kissed. She cried at the beauty of it, she wept and shook uncontrolably at the power of the release.

Yes, she thought. "Yes, I will be the chooser of my spirit's residence. In the presence of the evil-gods it will hide in the sylvan-mist. In the company of my sisters, it shall return to me." The child laughed through her now drying tears.

"What is it?" the older asked.

A smile, one which caused the older one's eyes to widen, shone from the child's face as she exclaimed,

"It is a treasure! It's not dirty or ugly. It's my treasure!"

"Yes," laughed the older girl saying, "Oh we must celebrate. I want to buy you a ring to honor this day. To remind you how precious you are!"

"But we're not allowed. Where will we get the necessary money to buy such a thing?" asked the child.

A sly smile came to the older one's lips as she replied, "I'll get it, don't worry. I've done it before. It's easy. You'll see."

That day the child learned that a happiness was possible even in confinement. Afterwards, the older gave her a tiny ring. Silver, with black onyx.

The child learned something else that day too. She learned of a way to retreat and hide within herself. This was a valuable skill to have in slavery. Sadly, it is not one for a free person.

No, in the free world, such a skill would become a hindrance to the child. Such a habit would eventually make living in the free world a burden. But what did she know of these things? There was plenty of time to learn of new pain...

Outside the shining sun
Deceit of a smile
Inside the darkness reigns
The heart in denial

Despair rules in pain
Deception's face mild
Lauded”a gift of words
Passion's bruised child