The Beast's Slave

II

“Where have you been?” A voice questions from behind following the caving of a shadow that temporarily shades River from the glaring sun. “Mathilde has been searching for you since morning.”

River finishes scrubbing her hands clean in the bucket filled with ice water, then cups a handful splashing it over her face in an attempt at cooling the rose that shakes in her blood, and shadows her cheeks. “I was washing the linens.” She lies smoothly, avoiding the girl’s stern stare. 

“Is it an emergency?” In truthfulness, River’s heart still tumbles, body juddering at the inability to rid herself of the intimacy image. 

The girl shifts to her side as they pick a path back towards the village, “Not really, it’s regarding tonight.”

River licks her teeth thoughtfully, squinting up ahead as a group of children rush past them, wooden swords clashing in a playful manner, “What of tonight?”

“Lilith will be telling the story,” the girl remarks mildly. Thin dark billows of clouds string from the near distance, moments later the familiar curve of thatched roofs and dried brick chimneys form. Their village comes to view within a heartbeat. “Will you be done with chores by then?” 

River hums in nonchalance, mentally checking over the numerous chores bestowed on her that day. Despite the cool autumn weather, her mistress needed the linens washed and draped, the kitchen scrubbed clean and two chickens slaughtered for the feast at night.

The blood moon practice was a ritual celebrated every six months, bi-annually. A festival in praise to the gods who had spared them yet another year of peace and prosperity, away from the wretched clutches of beasts that roam beyond the borders. 

They had not been caught despite the growing tensions as villages burned to ashes and mortals slaughtered, leaving behind no trace of life in their wake. No one had survived the attacks and no one would for the commander that led the beasts was known to be callous, unemotional, apathetic and cold as moonlight. No one knew of his name nor origin. He simply was. 

Only few, a scarce handful that survived to tell the tale of destruction could recall the man’s physique. Even then, terror had struck their hearts and minds, rendering them mute, useless, dead.

River scarcely worried over the attacks for they seemed so far away. Before she would have moments of suffocating anxiety whilst lying wide awake in the absolute dark, listening to the wind howling- straining to hear the wolf beyond. Sometimes she thought she would hear it - a howl so low, almost drowned out by the moaning wind, and other times she simply shrugged it off as a trick of the ear. 

Yet as time went on, worries of wolves and beasts carefully tucked itself into the cranny of her mind as she had other situations to bicker and stress over.

They were safe. 

Their leader had trained the best of warriors; both men and boys, who patrolled their borders night and day, and among those boys stood one that drew her attention. Adriel. Tall, lanky, sure-footed yet witty Adriel. A mop of dark curls and beguiling pristine blue eyes that smiled into hers from across the field. 

Watching the couple that made love beneath the drooping willow tree, River could not help but place herself in that position. Adriel above her. His calloused warm hands skimming the length of her legs and thighs, his wet hot mouth praising the skin on her neck. He would see her scars as those of beauty, her dark unruly hair as something magical and bright. And he would whisper his own promising delights whilst slowly thrusting into her, filling her with his whole being --

“River!” The hiss of a woman startles River and she glances up just as her friend, Ignis, scurtles in the opposite direction. Warily, River watches her mistress from a distance, standing beside the small wooden home.  Rista, her mistress of eight years, is a small, fat woman in black with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. 

Her skeleton is small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another is obesity in her. She looks bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, look like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they move from one passing figure to another until finally, they land on River.

“Where have you been, girl?” Her voice is as tangible as the stench which pervades her. A soft wheezing sound strangles the lady. 

“Down by the riv-” 

The lady waves a chubby liver-spotted hand dismissively, “the linens are still unwashed, have them done before dusk.”

A pressure grows in her mouth, causing her muscles to flex and twitch. River lowers her eyes in deference as she speaks, “Yes, mistress.” She stands, hands clasped before her and waits for the woman to turn and leave. Conscious of the bottomless eyes that drag over her figure, mouth twisting into something short of a snarl before pivoting and waddling away.

River watches the lone woman’s retreating figure spitefully before sighing softly and turning on her way to collect the laundry. 

The day’s weather had been fine from dawn, cooler as the sun rose and languidly cooled even further whilst it set. River spent the majority of her day by the river, washing through s**t-stained linens done by her mistress. A widow with gaps in her teeth caused by long years of childbearing—and no living

child to show for it, Ritsa spent her final years living isolated from the rest of the village. 

When River was first purchased by the lady, her days had been viciously cruel, riddled with endless anxiety and fear. The beatings had been as consistent as her lack of discipline - myriads of rules that River, then ten years old, had failed to understand or live up to. Once she woke up five minutes later and was forced to sit in the river, naked, at dawn when the water was as its coldest.

Another time she had been caught eating before the mistress and was locked in her room for three days with neither food nor water. River had learned her position beneath the woman’s roof. 

It took eight years of consistent growth to finally understand what she liked and did not like. How she preferred her linens to be washed, the type of herbs in her tea, how many brush strokes and amount of pressure applied on her soft aging scalp.

The punishments abated with time, perhaps because River had finally mastered each and every technique leaving no fault. Or maybe it was age that finally crept on the mistress, arthritis aching her joints rendering her unable to lift a cane. All that was left was the grating lash of her tongue and spearful gaze.

Dusk settles, casting the cloud in red hues of crimson. River hangs the final clothing, casting tiger orange glows across the billowing sheets. Her head tilts up at the faint sound of beating drums, thudding against the earth - a signal of the ceremony yet to start.

Plucking the basket from the ground, River makes her way back to the cottage humming tunelessly to a folk song, unaware that this would be her last night home.