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XOXO,
Elyzabeth
Hand of Fate
Mayra touched her forehead
to the ground. Desolate, she watched from the corner of her eye as her basket
full of parsnips was carried away by the river´s current. The sound of heavy
boots had her focusing her gaze on the dirt again. She held her breathe. Please, please, have them walk on. Please.
Please.
Her pounding heart drowned
out any other sound as one of them came to stand in front of her. She shut her
eyes tightly, willing him away. She couldn´t see him but she felt his presence.
He was staring at her hands, analyzing them. Her palms itched and she was sure that
beneath the dirt coating them they were growing red and moist under his
perusal. Let them be unsatisfactory.
Please. Please.
Her teeth hurt as she
clenched her jaw and silently prayed to a God she was no longer certain
existed. The words of her caretaker, Miope, rang in her ears: Use them and abuse them Mayra. Make them
calloused, dirty, torn, useless except for collecting vegetables. Or else—The old
man shook his head sadly. He didn´t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Or
else she´d be taken away by them and never be seen again.
“You.”
Bile rose to the back of her
throat and tears prickled her closed eyelids.
No. No.No. A gentle, yet firm hand, touched her head. The parting words of
her mother rushed to her mind at the contact: Don´t let them see the tears. Don´t let them see the fear. Hold your
head high and plunge ahead. Die with dignity.
¨Stand, kamaira.¨
Slave. That was all she was
to them. A kamaira born to serve them, here, in the fields, in the mountains or
else-where, but she was more than that.
Almost in a dream like
quality, she rose. Her legs trembled beneath her but she wouldn´t fall. Someone
cried out. Amara. Her heart constricted. She heard another cry and knew that
her lifelong friend was being punished for her outbreak. No fear. No tears. She´d go with them peacefully. She curled her
hands at her sides, squared her shoulders and raised her head to look at her executioner´s
face.
She almost lost her
composure at the sight. The Uraima that stared patiently at her was not demon
like. His eyes were a dark brown and his face was as human as hers. Her
expression must have given something away because the edges of his lips curled
slightly upwards making him appear even friendlier. Her gut coiled almost
painfully. No fear. No tears. She
repeated the mantra in her head hoping to calm the ball of anxiety spreading across
her every nerve.
“Give me your hands,
kamaira.”
Mayra bit down on her lip,
frantically trying to control her shaking hands as she offered them to the
Uraima. He made no comment as he took them turned them over in his gloved
hands.
“Almost perfect,” he
whispered.
He lifted his hand and made
a beckoning motion. Immediately a servant came to his side carrying two towels
and a basin of water. Mayra heaved. The water´s fragrance identical to the one
she´d smelled the day they´d taken her mother.
“Do you not like it, kamaira?”
She froze. He was speaking
to her? Asking her a question? They remained silent for so long she thought the
world had come to a standstill. Finally, the Uraima sighed heavily.
“I guess I’ll have to teach
you some manners before I present you.”
Mayra said nothing. The
Uraima proceeded to dip her hands in the water. She flinched. It was warm and
whatever they had thrown in there to make it smell like that made her wounds sting.
After a few moments, he pulled her hands out and wrapped them around a towel.
Gentler than she’d thought possible he started to wipe them clean. When he
finished, all traces of dirt, blood and callouses were gone.
“Perfect. Just like a
thought they’d be.”
An unbidden tear slid down
her cheek. She was doomed.
To be continued?
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