THE SPURNED

Many Years Ago

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I would let you die.” The words came from the silhouette of a man in the doorway just as something heavy flopped onto the dirt floor in front of her. “…But the Faith does not allow it.”

“I am sorry,” she cried. “Wait!” But the blinding rectangle of light folded in upon itself until gone—and with it, another day’s worth of hope.

She crawled toward where the object had fallen and found it with her fingers. The top was warm and slick, the rest covered with fine dirt that had already turned to muddy paste. At least it is fresh, she thought as she wiped her fingers on her clothing and attempted to rub clean a portion of the raw meat.

The words were cruel but comforting. In the dark she was not afraid—not afraid of death at least. It was the tedium that was killing her. Day after day of no contact, no interaction, nothing to do save make mounds of dirt and knock them down again. It wore on her like a mortal disease. It was good to hear a voice, regardless of what was said.

She was alone in here, just her and her bucket, and there was not much joy to be gleaned from a bucket full of your own leavings. He would only take the bucket once a week, and by then it was near full. Each time the metal pail was swapped for a new one, she would use it to dig. She dug in the same spot by the rear wall, and each day she would get a little deeper through the near frozen ground. When she could hold back no longer, she’d be forced to use her bucket for its intended purpose and push all the dirt and rock back into its proper place. What he would do if he saw that she attempted escape, she did not venture to guess—she only knew it would not be good.

A scraping noise came from the door causing her to snap to attention. Dropping her meat to the ground, she raced to the door, and pressed her ear against it.

“Mother?” she whispered. “Is that you?”

Eternities passed as she waited for a reply. Sometimes she thought she heard weeping, but not today.

“Tell Father I did not mean to do it…and it will never happen again. Tell him it was an accident. Please.”

She pushed her ear harder against the cold wood, hearing nothing but her own breathing and heartbeat. After a while her ear began to ache, so she cupped her hands around it and listened that way.

“I will always use a flint, Mother. I promise. It was just so cold, and we were in a hurry. I did not mean to stray from the Faith. I am sorry for what I did.”

Her heart jumped as she felt a bump through the door. Someone had leaned against it or pushed away from it—she could not tell.

“Mother?”

She waited. Her muscles hurt from squatting the way she was for so long, but she endured.

“How is Enka?” she pleaded. “Did her sickness pass? Just scratch the door once if she has gotten better.”

She listened for the scratch that never came. As her muscles began to cramp and burn she was forced to sit, her back against the door. Crying did her no good. She had abandoned it after several weeks of wasted tears, but the anguish of desolation never went. I would rather die than live like this forever.

“She is dead.”

Her mother’s voice was so unexpected she believed it to have been imagined, but then it continued.

“Enka has gone, and I intend to follow. Know that it was your doing. Goodbye, Elise.”