Mercy and Monsters - Chapter 8
Mercy and Monsters - Chapter 8
“It’s alright,” Mercedes hugged her daughter tight. “It’s alright. Just so long as you’re safe.”
What gladness and what joy
are endowed to one who is loved
for truly there is one to share
all his sufferings and his pain.
-Blasted Hopes
Mija awoke to the sound of trumpets, and found herself moving along at a galloping pace. Hurriedly looking about, she saw that the riders were frantically fleeing an oncoming cavalry, announcing the fact as they closed in on their quarry.
“No,” Mija whispered, disbelieving. And yet, it was true. Somehow Fransĩs had secured enough dragoons to hunt them down, and they would not be granted even a moment’s respite from the chase.
“Those are the caliph’s men!” one rider cried, the light of the moon shining upon the cavalry banners, and showing that he spoke the truth.
“He wanted us to attack!” another screeched, and it was then that Mija realized the awful truth. Had Fransĩs invaded on his own initiative, it would have drawn the reprisal of the Andalusi caliph. But should he retaliate to an Iber invasion, to defend his home against an outside attack, the caliph would not only tolerate his offensive, but outright aid him in the cause. With his own naval fleet and the caliph’s land troops at his command, Fransĩs was unstoppable. All they could do now was run.
But the horses of the Iber riders were tired. They had galloped all day, and their bellies cried out for food as their throats cried out for water. They were in no mood to keep running forever, and when one rider slapped his horse for more speed, the poor beast had had enough. With a pained whinny, the horse bucked the ungrateful rider off its back, and dashed off into the wild.
“No! Don’t leave me!” The rider cried, but he was too far behind them to go back for, and even as Mija pleaded and begged her father to heed the poor man, he remained stone-faced and silent.
A scream from behind drew Mija’s attention, and she saw that the Andalusi riders had begun to loose their arrows. Having now taken care of the one stray rider, the dragoons unleashed a slew of arrows with the skill befitting their station, which only sent the Iber horses into a greater frenzy. One rider cried out as his horse was slain, and soon all the fleers had been kicked or bucked off their horses.
Mija yelped as she felt herself tumble about, but her father wrapped his arms around her, and when at last she had regained her bearings, Mija found herself unhurt. Looking down at her father though, she found he had not been so lucky. He had fallen and rolled over across his head, and he was bleeding badly from the back of his neck.
“Papa!” Mija cried, before she was lifted by Mercedes, also roughed up but otherwise alive.
“Mami, are you alright?” Mercedes confirmed her daughter’s condition, before checking on her husband. Brushing aside her worried questions, Diego rose shakily to his feet, and glanced back towards the oncoming dragoons.
“My lord! There!” one man pointed towards a nearby forest, and Diego understood at once. They could not outrun the horses, but in the thickness of the trees they could slow the riders’ pace down, and perhaps hide where the moonlight would not reach. Bellowing for everyone to follow, Diego dashed dazedly towards the safety of the trees, with all those still alive following closely behind.
The light of the moon did not allow for the most accurate of aims, but then the Andalusi cavalry did not truly need to achieve perfection. A hail of arrows would hit at least someone, as Mija noticed the fleeing men around her slowly drop one by one. And even if the arrows hit no targets, as Mija’s pounding heart and frantic mind attested, the fear was enough to make them easier prey.
The dragoons pursued their quarry with ruthless efficiency. They had no quarrel with the Ibers, and as the caliph’s men were only acting in defense of their realm. Yet somehow this lack of sadism or mad delight only made Mija more afraid. And when she heard her father scream, and saw him stumble and fall, an arrow in his back, instead of righteous fury at a villainous horde, all Mija could feel was a numb sense of disbelief.
Time seemed to stand still as Mija stared dumbfoundedly at her father, kneeling and bleeding, his breath ragged and disjointed. For what seemed like an eternity, their eyes locked together, until at last, his blood-drenched teeth clenched in pain, Don Diego Ventura bellowed for his daughter to flee and live.
“No! Papa!” Mija howled, but already she had been scooped up by Mercedes. And though she bellowed and howled, begging her mother not to be so cruel, she knew it took every ounce of willpower for Mercedes not to turn back.
“Mami! I love you!” Diego bellowed. Then, barely more than a whisper, “I’m sorry.”
Mija could only stare as another slew of arrows silenced her father forever. As her mother carried her into the forest, and they hid among the trees as the dragoons passed them by, it was as though Mija remained in a trance. The only thing she noticed in the world was the way Mercedes tightly held her, and the silent sobs they shared, as they were forced to confront the fact that they were now totally and completely on their own.
When morning came, Mija and Mercedes went out of the forest to find Diego’s body. They found it where they had left it, and cleaned and prepared it as best they could. There was no priest to offer the proper rites, but they buried him and held a funeral to the best of their ability. The words of prayer Mija offered rang hollow in her throat, but they were all she could think to say, as the sunlight beat down on her face. The sun had come again, as she had known it would, and yet as she felt her skin singe and sting beneath its unyielding gaze, she saw that even in light there could be death.
After they had finished, Mija and Mercedes marched back into the forest. Mija hardly paid attention to where they were going, merely following her mother’s path, but after several minutes of turning and stopping, Mija began to wonder if they had gotten lost. As she stared more closely at her mother, Mija realized she was looking for something, but what, exactly?
Before she could ask, her mother evidently found the thing she was looking for, as her eyes widened and she began to pluck a certain plant. As Mija watched dumbly, Mercedes stripped her torn and blood-stained dress off and rubbed the plant across her body, wincing when she brushed against a scratch or wound that had been left from the previous day’s events.
“Here,” she handed the plant to Mija after she was finished. “Rub this over yourself. It will leave a rash.”
“But… why…?” Mija did not understand.
“Right now we need to get to Mesata de la Plata as quickly as we can,” Mercedes dressed herself. “We have no horses, and your father had only a little food and water in his pack. But we can eat berries and fruits from the trees, and drink water from the rivers and lakes, so long as we boil it beforehand.”
“You… I don’t…”
“We’ll have to avoid the roads. Any place where people normally travel,” Mercedes said. Then, to herself, “I thought this life to be long behind me.”
“How do you know all this? To do all this?” was all Mija could think to ask.
At that, Mercedes turned, and smiled sadly at her daughter.
“This is not the first war I have lived through,” she held her daughter tight. “And by Yehovah, I shall make sure you live through this one. Now come, little one, the leaves.”
Mija quickly did as she was told, and sure enough, several hours later she was covered head to toe with a furious rash. In the past, when she had been smaller and she had gotten sores and scratches, Mija’s mother had always said not to irritate them. Now though, as Mercedes joined her daughter in scratching her rashes, it seemed as though the lady wanted them to be irritated and enlarged. Why she desired such a thing Mija did not know, but she knew enough at least not to question her mother’s wisdom.
Travel was difficult, especially since Mija had never been outside of Zarzuela before. Her shoes were worn and barely held together, and her clothes were splattered with blood, mud, and sweat. But every time she was ready to complain, to cry out and scream at the misery of it all, she would see her mother’s face, resolute and unwavering, and it would silence her at once. Mija saw that there was still so much about her mother that she did not know, still so much of her that remained a mystery. She hoped that once this war had ended, when they were safe and secure once again, that she would get the chance to ask her mother of these things.
The death of Diego still weighed heavily on them both, and sometimes Mija could see the queenly mask of her mother crack and fracture, with little pieces of the true grief spilling out. It was only at night, when Mercedes thought her daughter sleeping, that Mija could hear her mother curse and wail and weep. Even then though, Mercedes knew not to alert any wolves or bandits to their position, and she would bite her hand to prevent the sound of her sadness from spreading too far. Mija sometimes cried too, but she tried not to do so in front of her mother, knowing now how difficult things were for her.
Her primary worry now lay in her mother’s wounds. The cuts and scrapes Mercedes had endured were now growing darker and more swollen, and Mercedes began to show signs of fever. Mija did the best she could to help her mother. Rinsing a hairpin that had remained on her person and reopening the wounds, Mija drained her mother of her infected blood, and covered the fresh wounds in leaves that she found. There was only so much they could do in the wilderness though, and Mercedes insisted that they stay out of towns until reaching Gran Gordo’s castle.
One night though, as Mercedes lay shivering and sweating, Mija could bear it no longer, and asked her mother if there were any herbs that could ease her suffering. Mercedes muttered out the names of some plants Mija knew, but urged her not to go too far from the campfire. Mija nodded in agreement, and hurried off, thanking her lucky stars that all those walks with Raul had taught her a thing or two of their gardens’ contents. That was right, Mija remembered as she shuffled through some nearby bushes. First Raul, and now her father. Mercedes, her mother, was the only family that still remained alive. Mija swore that she would not allow her mother to die, not so long as she drew breath herself, and she went about her task with a feverish vigor.
Her findings were sparse, but they would at least ease her mother’s troubles, and Mija quickly hurried back to where they had made camp. Before she made it though, a burly hand reached across her mouth, and silenced her screams. As she kicked and thrashed against the figure that held her tight, several more bandits appeared, and snickered sneeringly at their newly caught prize.
“Well, well, what have we here?” the apparent leader of the gang asked.
“Hey! Look!” another cried, and the bandits noticed Mercedes, lying there by the fire.
“Well, well!” the leader grinned, and his men at once grabbed the woman, even as Mija kicked and screamed in protest.
Mercedes could only stare dumbfoundedly at first, her fever having left her too delirious to do much else. But once she saw the bandits holding her daughter hostage, and felt the filthy hands squeezing her limbs immobile, she at once realized the danger, and screamed.
“Typhus! Typhus! Typhus!” she howled, and at once the bandits recoiled from her. Baring her breast and showing her rashes, Mercedes sent the bandits into a fit of terror, and they dropped Mija as soon as they saw the rashes on her too. After the bandits had fled, Mercedes hobbled over to her daughter, now frantically trying to scoop up the herbs she had collected.
“Mami, are you alright?” Mercedes asked.
“I’m okay! I’m okay,” Mija now knew why her mother had rubbed herself with the strange plant. “I’m sorry. They’re all dirty now.”
“It’s alright,” Mercedes hugged her daughter tight. “It’s alright. Just so long as you’re safe.”
After Mija had cleaned and boiled the plants, and fed them to Mercedes, her mother began to feel a little better. She was still very ill, and Mija knew the herbs had only been a temporary fix, but they would last her until they reached the Gran Gordo castle at least. They simply had to hold out until then. Yes, just hold out a little while longer. Then they would be safe. No more hiding. No more running. Peace and safety once again, so close Mija could almost taste it.
Mija hardly slept at all that night.
Before they had even made it to the castle gates, Mija saw the archers glaring down at them, bows at the ready as Mija helped her hobbling mother inch closer to the haven they had been promised.
“Who goes there?” the head archer barked. Mija did not blame them for their caution. There was a war going on, after all. But she would be hanged if Mercedes and she were to be turned away now. They were so close, so tantalizingly close, and all she needed to do was calmly answer the archer’s question.
“This is the noble Donna Mercedes Ventura, of House Ventura in Zarzuela,” Mija called out clearly and calmly. “We seek asylum from the Andalusi forces, who have taken our lands.”
“Yes, we know,” the archer said curtly. “We are accepting no asylum-seekers.”
Mija could only stare dumbly at the soldier.
“But… we… we were told…”
“Told?” the archer sneered. “By whom?”
“One… one of the soldiers. He…”
“The word of a common foot soldier holds no sway here,” the head archer interjected. “We have no room for stragglers or rabble. Try your luck elsewhere.”
“But…” Mija’s mind raced, as she struggled to find some trick, some diplomatic ploy her mother had taught her in all her lessons, something she could use to convince the archer to let them in! But any conscious thoughts and careful formulations were torn apart by the all-consuming fear that now gripped Mija’s heart. They had come all that way! They had lost so much, but had kept going, all on that tentative sliver of hope that Mesata de la Plata would be open to them, that once they arrived there they could rest and be safe once again. They couldn’t go back! And where else could they go? All her tricks and ploys melted into nothingness as the flood of horror took hold of her, and the tears began to stream down Mija’s cheeks.
“Quiet!” the head archer barked. “I can’t have my troops hear your blubbering! Do you wish to sap morale?”
At once, Mercedes began to gurgle out something resembling speech, and Mija gasped as she strained her ear to listen.
“Tell him…” Mercedes mumbled, and Mija dutifully took her mother’s message.
“You have ten seconds to leave,” the heard archer drew his bow. “Ten… nine…”
“Wait!” Mija cried. “Wait, my mother! Donna Mercedes! She says to tell your lord that her husband is dead and she can give him that which he desires!”
Mija hardly understood the words as she spoke them, though she could feel the dark undercurrent that permeated them. Whatever their meaning though, they were enough to get the archer to pause his count, and glance suspiciously at his fellow soldiers. For what seemed like an eternity to Mija, they whispered conspiratorially amongst themselves, only pausing to give patronizing glances at the pair of women. Finally though, Mija’s heart rested a little more easily, as the head archer went to deliver the message to Don Gran Gordo. And at last, after several minutes of waiting, the gate was opened, and Mija and Mercedes were granted sanctuary.
Mija had never expected a warm bath to feel so good, and yet, after all her time in the wilderness, it now seemed like the greatest of luxuries. Already her mouth was watering at the prospect of the food she would be feasting on, once she had finished. And the drowsiness brought on by the warmth of the water made her eagerly anticipate the soft, silken bed she would sleep on when night fell at last. At last they had made it. Sanctuary was theirs, and Mija was elated and ecstatic.
That was when she suddenly realized she had forgotten her father. It had only been for a moment, as she had scrubbed and washed herself in the tub, but when understanding came to her, Mija began to feel miserable once more. For a single instant, her father’s shadow had not clouded her thoughts. For only a moment, she had lived her life completely without his presence, and she felt like an ungrateful daughter for having done so. She did not know why, Diego had not been a kind father after all, and yet even so his death had left her feeling hollow. After Barbarossa, there had of course come a time when she had continued to live without Raul’s presence constantly in her heart. It was how life was, after all. But it was only now, after all the fear and panic had subsided, and sanctuary was present again, that Mija had allowed herself to forget her father. Mercedes, her mother, was all that remained of her family. Would there come a day when she too died, and Mija lived on without her? Even as she asked the question, Mija knew the answer to be yes. One had to keep living, even as the people in one’s life slowly disappeared. And yet Mija knew, as soon as she saw her mother again, she would hold her tight and not let go. She would make sure her mother at least remained alive for many years to come.
After Mija had been dried and dressed and escorted to her dinner, she found to her surprise that instead of a grand feast, a meager plate of meat and bread was all that awaited her at the table. Glancing around and noticing the worn-down and shabby appearance of the dining room, Mija supposed that the war had taken quite a toll on Mesata de la Plata, and that this was all the food they could muster for a guest. Still, Mija did not mind. After all, it was far closer to a feast than anything she had eaten on the road, and if the price of a banquet was a garrison of fully fed troops, that seemed fair to Mija. The absence of her mother, on the other hand…
“Excuse me?” Mija asked a serving girl. “Do you know where my mother is?”
“Donna Mercedes? Ah, yes, she was taken to the chambers of-” the girl replied, before a glare from her fellow servants halted her. “Um, I mean, she’ll… she’ll be along.”
Mija glanced about, scanning the servants to see if they would reveal any further details. But already, she had an idea of what the servant girl had meant to say. An ill mood now fell upon her, and the food did not taste as good as before. Still, there was one thing she had left to ask.
“The healers, they took care of her?”
“What?” the serving girl asked. “Oh! Oh, yes, don’t worry. They saw to her immediately, and now she’s fit as a fiddle, albeit still somewhat weak.”
“That’s… good,” Mija gazed down at her now-empty plate. “That’s good.”
Mercedes lay on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling, her head spinning and heart raw. She had known what the hidalgo had wanted for years, but had never humored his desires until that evening. She wished with all her heart that Diego was with her, to hold her in his arms and give her courage. But he was not. He was gone, like her son had gone before him. And now all that remained was her daughter. So long as she was safe, Mercedes knew her sacrifice to be worth it. And they were safe at last, at long last. For the first time in a long time, she could close her eyes and rest easily, safe in the knowledge of her daughter’s continued survival. Slowly Mercedes began to drift off to sleep, content in that knowledge.
And in that moment, the Moorish soldiers burst into the room, blades at the ready. Mercedes did not even have time to sit up.
Mija was walking through the halls, making her way towards the room her mother was supposed to be in, when she heard the scream. At once her blood ran cold, and the pounding in her heart began to sound once more, as the fear began creeping back into her now-hurried pace.
No, no, no. Mija kept repeating the words, silently at first, then aloud, then screaming as she dashed down the castle corridors, coming closer and closer to the source of that scream she had heard.
The door was ajar, and unguarded, and so it was no trouble for Mija to burst in to see the sight that lay before her. When she did, she screamed, and screamed and screamed and screamed. The blood was fresh and dripping from the soldier’s swords, and as they stared in shock and shame at the little girl who had barged in, Mija felt her heart, and her mind, break a little more.
She had promised. She had promised! Promised to hold her mother tight and not let her go! Promised to make sure she lived for many more years to come! She had made that promise and it had already been broken, and all she could do now was curse and howl and scream.
There! With animalistic fury, Mija lunged upon a Moorish knight and took his sword from him. The blood from the blade, mother’s blood, stained Mija’s hands as she hacked and slashed madly around her. Yes! For a single instant Mija was an amazon warrior, valiantly vanquishing her foes like Aminatu or Calafia! She was the beautiful, brave, and bold fighter her mother had meant for her to be, and she would kill the monsters that had killed her mother!
Then the instant was gone, and the pitiful flailings of a child were halted and disarmed by calmer, more professional hands. A bestial howl let loose from Mija’s lips as she struggled against her captors, but soon it had collapsed into a hopeless whimper. Everything was gone. It had all been taken from her. There was nothing left.
The sound of clapping brought forth what little attention Mija had left to spare, and when she saw the source of it, her blood ran cold. Emir Fransĩs Ben Farānsheskū, followed by a now meek and groveling Don Aitor Gran Gordo, was walking into the room, his lips curled in an amused sneer.
“Good work, gentlemen,” Fransĩs laughed heartily. “That’s three Venturas dead and one captured.”
“A-and you’ll tell the caliph I cooperated?” Aitor bumbled. “You’ll tell him I gave the Ventura woman to you.”
“Of course, my dear Aitor,” Fransĩs chuckled. “And I can assure you, for your role in our victory you shall be blessed with the highest Andalusi honors and titles that can be granted. Why, I’m sure you shall even be granted an emirate over our new province of Mesata de la Plata.”
“No,” Mija whimpered, but it was all she could do. Fransĩs was going to kill her. She knew it. And the only source of comfort in it all was the fact that soon she would be with her family again.
“Now,” Fransĩs glanced at Mija’s blood-stained hands. “Mm, yes, she’ll need a bath first. You there, boy.”
“Y-yes, sir?” one of the soldiers who held Mija asked.
“Clean her up and get her ready for me.”
“I…” the soldiers glanced around, not understanding. “How do you mean?”
“Why else do you think I ordered this one to be kept alive?” was all Fransĩs said, before leaving.
The soldier took Mija and ran. He hid her in a cart of vegetables, and led her out of the city, pretending to be a cook delivering rations to the troops now stationed around the castle. Then, after he had slipped through the camp and into the night, he charged his horse as fast as it would go. Mija would never learn his name, but for that moment, he seemed to her a real-life knight in shining armor.
“Why are you doing this?” Mija asked, as they rode through the night.
“I do many things for my lord, but I won’t hand him a child as his new plaything,” was all the soldier said, before ordering her to hide in the cart again. Once Fransĩs realized she was missing, he would scour the land in his search for her. They had to get as much of a head start as they could before then.
The familiar sound of trumpets alerted Mija to the presence of Fransĩs’ men. And the further shaking of the cart alerted her to the quickened pace of the rider. But even as the memory of the night of her father’s death reignited her fear and panic, it was a pittance to the sheer desolation that consumed her heart. Even if they escaped, what would be the point? Where would she go? What would she do? There was nothing left for her in this world.
A river roared loudly nearby, and Mija let her mind melt and drift in the void of sound. And when the arrows flew and the rider screamed, when the horse fell and the cart tumbled to the ground, Mija did nothing save allow her body to go limp. Tumbling down the hill, dancing with the vegetables as they bounded into the river, the last thing Mija saw was the rider’s slain face, before she fell beneath the waves and readied herself for death.