The Nameless
an excerpt

Chapter One

The girl’s name was lost and foreign, like the glints of ancient underwater jewels, gathering slit as offerings to river spirits. The forbidden unutterable syllables of that name pulsed through her flesh. Her occasional sobs punctuated the silence of the candlelight vigil. She lay at her mistress’ cold feet and cried.
There were servants who worked in the hut, attending the royal residents, and they looked on with pity. Although visitors were streaming in from all over the Kingdom, they left the unfortunate slave girl be, and she remained there unmoved for the three days the wake lasted. Her light green dress, ragged and no longer resembling a party frock, bore stains of the mud she should have swept from the floor. More well-wishers, respect-payers, trailed in and brought additional clumps of reddish earth on to the rush covered floor, but the girl did not move at all, and did not tidy the hut. She crumpled against the stick built pyre her mistress’s inanimate body was laid upon and shuddered and wailed. To those who did not know better, they saw it as a display of affection and loyalty, but the busy servants knew better. The girl’s motives were selfish when they were so hard pressed to organise everything necessary to send Princess Talia to the spirit world.
They could not in truth order her to do anything. She was owned by none of them, but they all knew who the recipient in the will was. That was why the girl cried.
On the third morning, a group of six, broad, hunting men squeezed into the narrow confines of the hut and gathered around the bedside. A maid threw a white gauze veil over the Princess’ beautiful still face, over the supple curves of her body, only just come into womanhood. The slave stared away from them all, staring ahead, staring into her own fantasy world. None looked in her direction as the men manoerved themselves round he awkward space, slid arms and elbows under the corpse and attempted to gain purchase on the dead weight. There was groaning and quiet cursing, though never loud enough to breach respect for the deceased. Soon, they had angled out the small door, just a space in the hut’s mud and wattle walls, and were gone down the path. They would take the body to the river and entrust its owner’s soul to the spirit world.
The slve girl became to hum to herself, and mutter and rock gently. She was near to hysteria, left alone, uncertain and unsure. She needed comfort to pull her from the icy depths of her blackness and despair. Princess Talia was gone and she mourned, but mourned only for the loss of the protection her mistress had afforded her.
The time dragged on, and she felt she had never known another water release to last so long. But then, no Royal had ever died before during her time in the Kingdom. Probably a long, tedious ceremony was usual and required. A crested tit called from the branches of the sycamore she knew towered over the roof of the pathetic structure. It was a rare bird, visible only seldom in the whole region, visible only in winter, but she had no desire to creep at side to ogle the lost little bird. Her curiosity felt so inelastic she did not even realise to think about why it was here in the months of mid-summer. It gave a particularly loud screech from its vantag point and she saw its shadow flit across the doorway. The desolation hit her again with the sudden abandonment.
A long time of silence ensued, and then rustlings could be heard on the path outside, scuffling upwards from the river bank. The mourners had abandoned the body to the currents, and now light chit-chat was made as they prepared to gather in the princess’ old residence and let her bereaved aunt supply them all with food. Many of the bustling gossips would have brought their own meagre contributions. Panic seized the slave girl as the footfalls grew nearer, louder, more numerous, and she turned herself slightly to face the wall directly. She did not want to have to meet their judging eyes. She supposed she should be glad she had not been made to sing at the ceremony. The King was probably afraid she would be a disruption and embarrass him somehow. He had never been able to command her when it mattered.
The first person entered the room, more behind, and suddenly the space, so heavy and weighed down with grief, was bubbling with gossip and laughter, wafting with the smells of hot chicken broth, thistle soup and cranberry tarts. It pressed down on the depressive compartment inside her forehead, the one the skin stretched too tightly over, the one that was tight and screaming with fear. What was going to happen to her?
She tied to shut out the merry sounds. She could sometimes hear the King’s voice among the many, sombre and low, unable to celebrate life like the others when her only daughter and heir to the throne was dead. She could imagine his anger, at the spirits who snatched the pricess from his material world. She whispered a prayer that please, she would not bear the brunt of that anger. She squeezed herself down into a smaller ball and lay still. A scratching and breaking wood noise announced they were taking apart the little modest pyre, to feed the flames in the heart most likely. The crackling shot directly into her ears over the short distance, unruffled by the oppressive, thich atmosphere of the smoke-filled structure. She winced.
A tap landed on her shoulder. It was so light as to be almost undiscernible and at first she was unsure what she had felt. Then the tapping persisted, scrabbling on the soot-grimed fabric of her dress’ remnants. Taking a steadying breath, she turned, and found herself face to face with a rosy-faced manservant. He had crouched down to her level and was scrutinising her tear-streaked face intently. She dropped her eyes to the ground in deference to this lowly man.
“Helen,” he whispered. “Helen, Mawulisa is here. She wants to see you.”
The dread struck her and pierced her aching heart. The emotions swirled through her brain, through her blood vessels, constricting around her lungs so that she found it difficult to breathe. She could not speak, but slowly, painstakingly, pulled herself to her feet in reply. No one looked in their direction when the friendly, known manservant took her arm and supported her on shaking and unpractised legs as they hobbled to the door. They ducked under the low hanging twigs and Helen felt her copper hair snag on the groping ends. This could be the last time she ever walked through that doorway. She was unsure whether the thought was scary or liberating.
They stumbled down the narrow path a little way, beneath the overhanging green leaves of the deciduous trees that capeted almost every square inch of the Kingdom. The indivual shapes of the twisted trunks, the marks, knotches and knot holes, the bird nests balanced precariously in nooks and crannies, all were familiar to her, and she drew strength from their presence. She had not been hugely happy here, and perhaps a change would do her some good. Not that she had any say in the matter. She would just have to bravely face whatever fate threw at her.
With this forceful resolution freshly in mind, Helen eased her weight more firmly onto her own struggling feet and straightened up. Her escort was obviously relieved.
“She’s at the Eldritch Hollow,” he said. “Can you make it the rest of the way by yourself?” Helen nodded mutely and he turned to leave. She almost overbalanced but managed to keep the little dignity she had. “Good luck!” he called over his shoulder, tauntingly.
She could guess the huge depths of his relief that he did not have to face the renowned Mawulisa. The witch held a certain fame in the Kingdom, and was well known for her quick wit and scathing humour. No one ever approached her unless they needed help or brought gifts so she would help them in future. It was important to keep her in favour, or she could refuse to help when your homestead lay under threat from tribal raiding parties, or the deer did not return from their migration, or your wife was dying from a lasting illness. What was Helen going to find at Eldritch Hollow, she wondered.
Mawulisa had never visited the Royal longhouse in Lyderhorn, or the female’s hut where Helen stayed, although Princess Talia had often journeyed up the Koakung River to visit the talented witch at Otutu Shack. Helen had always been excluded from these pilgrimages. In fact, she had never been permitted to travel further than the nearest town of Dranjina. She had always supposed the Royals did not quite trust her. That was understandable enough. She herself would not have trusted her. She knew, and everyone else knew as clear as daylight, that she had pined to run away for years and the only thing preventing her was that she did not know the way home. She was far from her native woodlands and she realised that at least one river crossing would be necessary. Helen did not trust her ability to steer one of the small docked rowing boats against the strong currents, and she could not swim. So she had remained in her enslavement for six years, serving the Princess Talia and stubbornly refusing to divulge to the warrior King the information he wanted to hear. She would never betray the cherished memories of her loved ones, even if she could not return to them.
The Eldritch Hollow was a small, flat space roofed by the intertwining branches of five wizened silver birches. It was the annual site of the local midsummer festivals and in two weeks time the good citizens of Dranjina would feast and sing under those shining papery leaves. The preparations had not yet begun and the only thing occupying the sacred spot when Helen reached it was the shrouded black figure that she immediately took to be Mawulisa. An instinct screamed, a cry of self-preservation, and she slowed to a halt. The swaying woman was swamped by a fluttering veil which wafted in a breeze that stirred not a leaf in the forest canopy. A piercing gaze fell upon Helen from unseen eyes.
“Come here girl.” The voice was unexpectedly pleasant. It had a lilting, rolling, musical ring to it, like water gurgling over rocks. The command was given lightly and, well used to following orders, she trotted over to her new mistress, quelling all the fears in her restless soul.