Ten Apprentices Read online

  That is not what I dream of most often, or spend my hours thinking of, in the quiet with Jonas.

  It is the sky.

  The taste of fresh air in my mouth.

  The feel of grass between my toes.

  Cool spring water up to my waist.

  Dirt in my fingernails.

  Sometimes I think about escaping to the woods. I think about how I would make it past the guards. The silence around me extends even to them.

  Only Jonas speaks to me.

  He tells me that his foreleg aches. Or that he feels winter in the air. Or that he wants to dance.

  I dance with him, then.

  I stand in front of him and put my hands by his ears. He flicks his tail and we begin.

  I do not sing the music out loud, but I try to sing.

  I step back.

  Jonas steps forward.

  I step to the side.

  He follows me.

  I close my eyes. But there is no one there behind them dancing with me. Only Jonas.

  He snorts at me and pulls back.

  That is the end of our dance.

  In the morning, my legs ache.

  They bring us food. He gets oats and hay. Alfalfa, too.

  I pick at my meat.

  I stretch out my leg and stare at it. My long robes fold open.

  The leg is white and I can see the blue lines of veins in it. There is very little muscle left. How long until I cannot stand? How long until Jonas slumps to the floor, making pitiful sounds of distress?

  I think of riding him.

  I have never ridden a horse before. There is a oneness in it, in the way the rider sits up in the stirrups and bounces in time to the rhythm of the hooves.

  I am tall enough to climb astride Jonas now. I do not know if I am strong enough. The years in this stall have made me fat and weak. Even the king, for all he has a belly the size of a barrel of ale, must carry it around with him wherever he goes. He must go down to his throne on his own two feet, and go out hunting with the other nobles.

  He does not sit in his room all day, lying, sitting, or standing as his choices.

  I cannot even stretch out fully. Not anymore. My hands brush against the end of the stable when I try. I think my father must have been a very tall man. If I grow taller still, I will have to curl up when I am sleeping, to leave room for Jonas.

  In the morning, I make a decision.

  I stand on tiptoes and lift my arms up. The ceilings to the stable are not so high that I can touch them. Yet.

  It is not long before my arms grow tired, but I hold them up even so. Til they are shaking and I can feel the sweat running down from under my arms to my stomach. I let them down once, let my feet drop to my heels. For a count of ten. Then I lift again.

  I do this three times, and then look at Jonas.

  He tells me that I stink.

  I smile and tell him that he stinks, too.

  I hold my arms above my head twice more that day, but not close together. It makes too much work.

  And when the food comes, I make sure that I am sitting down, as usual. I wipe my forehead a few minutes before.

  Jonas snorts at me.

  I am sure I look ridiculous and not at all pure and clean, but my bath will come in the morning.

  I exercise for two weeks, and I can see the change in my legs. They look more like sticks and less like sausages. I find the food tastes better, and I eat it more quickly.

  When the priest comes, I can listen to him for longer before my mind dozes away from his words.

  And once in the night, I put my hands on Jonas’s side and try to lift myself up to his back. I slide back down and land with a hard knock to my head on the floor.

  Jonas snorts at me.

  The next day is the day the priest will come. I do not exercise all that day. I sit quietly until the priest arrives.

  He opens his book and reads to me for a long time.

  I am silent, listening, pure.

  At last, he stands to go.

  I think I have nothing more to fear. I think I have fooled him.

  I walk with him to the door of the stall.

  Then he turns, more swiftly than I knew he could, and pulls back my robe. He stares at my body. It is still white and soft, but not so much as before.

  He takes out his switch and puts out his hand.

  I give him mine.

  He hits me ten times, on each side. And then the other hand. Hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to bruise my skin or damage me.

  The pain is the cure. The disease is my body.

  “The strong are those who are strong in spirit,” the priest tells me when he is finished. “The strong before God are weak before men. The weak before God are strong before men. Do you understand?” He shakes me.

  I nod, terrified. And ashamed of myself, as well.

  When he is gone, and the door is closed behind him, I slump down.

  Jonas comes to me and tries to lift me up with his head. His nose is soft and wet.

  I wish that the priest had kicked me, or hit my face, or beat me with his fists about my chest and back. If I could make him do that, then he would let me go. I would be impure and they would have to find another.

  I do not let myself think of another boy, age seven, brought here and made to live as I have lived.

  In the morning, I do no exercises.

  And the next day, I have little appetite for food.

  The priest comes the third day, at a different time than usual. He steps in, moves my robes aside and nods with satisfaction.

  Can he truly tell that I have done nothing since he came before?

  When he is gone, I lean against Jonas.

  Then get up to do my exercises again.

  I do not stop doing them. I am exercising when my food comes. They see me. They whisper amongst themselves, and the priest comes.

  He sweeps into the room in his gray robe and watches me.

  “Stop,” he tells me.

  It is the first word he has spoken to me in all the years he has been coming here. A word, just for me. Not quoted from the scripture, not for the sacrifice.

  It makes me pull myself upward even harder.

  And then he kicks at my legs.

  I fall swiftly. The breath cuts out of my lungs sharply as I hit the ground. And I grin up at Jonas, who is behind the priest, sniffing at us both.

  You are an idiot, he says to me.

  I am, I say back to him.

  “No,” says the priest to me again. He shakes a finger at me.

  I get back to my feet.

  “No,” says the priest. He has chosen his word and he sticks to it.

  I stare at him in defiance. I am the chosen one. There are limits to what he can do to me.

  I am as exhilarated as if I am running a race. My heart pounds. I am warm as the summer sun.

  The priest slashes at my legs with his fist.

  I collide with Jonas on my way down. I feel a bruise rising on my head, just above my right ear. I get up again and stand on tiptoes with arms outstretched.

  “Stop,” says the priest.

  I mean to punch close to his face, but my aim goes wide.

  I strike him in the jaw.

  He staggers back, and speaks the name of the god. When he turns back, he bows his head in invitation for me to hit him again.

  I feel a drop of blood drip down from my chin onto my white robe.

  He stares at it, then nods and goes out the door.

  I know he will be back. And soon.

  I put my arms around Jonas’s neck.

  “You don’t know anything about the sacrifice,” Jonas says to me.

  “I do,” I say. “I know the words.”

  Blood of beast,

  Blood of men.

  Mix them once,

  To pure the blend.

  Sacrifice,

  Heart will burn.

  All will live

  Another turn.

  “He will kill y
ou,” says Jonas.

  “He cannot kill the chosen one. There will be no sacrifice.”

  “He will find another chosen one.”

  “Then he can let me go,” I say. “Send me away.”

  “Idiot,” says Jonas, shaking his head.

  The priest comes back that night. There are three with him, all dressed in the same gray robes.

  “Sacrifice,” says Jonas.

  There is a flash of silver, and I see that all the priests carry knives.

  Can I get one of the knives away from them?

  No. My best hope seems to be to get them to kill me here, before I am taken to the holy place of sacrifice. It does not seem much of a victory to me anymore.

  One of the new priests takes out a rope. I catch his eyes for a moment. They are very blue, and there is no hint of understanding in them. I do not think he sees me as a boy. To him, I am no more human than Jonas is.

  We are only sacrifice.

  The rope slides around my wrists and he pulls it tight.

  I cry out, and he looks at the rope once more, but he does not loosen it. I can feel my fingers going numb in just a few seconds. They feel cold, then sharply tingling, then warm.

  Jonas is harnassed.

  It looks strange to see him with a bit between his teeth. He cannot speak this way.

  This is the end, I think.

  They pull him out of the stable first.

  I come afterwards.

  Two priests for him, two for me.

  When the light hit me, I gasp in pain.

  Seven years it has been. I thought I would love the heat on my shoulders, that the world would seem fresh and beautiful to me.

  Instead, tears fall down my cheeks and I can see only blurs here and there, vaguely human shapes. Buildings to one side.

  The rope tugs on my arms and I miss a step. I fall, and catch myself on a rock.

  I thought I was exercising, growing stronger, but even the few dozen steps since I have come out of the stables seem like a race to me. I can hardly breathe.

  They drag me along, then put me in the cart with Jonas. I hear the clopping of two horses in front. Big ones, not like Jonas. I keep my hands over my eyes and feel myself a coward.

  I should at least see where they are taking me to my death.

  “Water,” says Jonas.

  “There’s no water here,” I tell him.

  We drive for a long time. Eventually, the sun sets and I can lift my eyes again. I draw myself closer to Jonas, tucking myself in so that the wind does not cut between us.

  “I am tired,” says Jonas.

  We come to a wide meadow. There are unmarked graves in varying stages of regrowth here.

  My hands are discolored, and seem like lumps of meat that have nothing to do with me.

  The cart stops. I am jolted forward and my hands strike the gate.

  I howl in surprise, that there is still feeling left in them, after all.

  I stumble out, and then Jonas steps high behind me. There is no water for him.

  My throat feels raw and fiery.

  There is the sound of another cart in the distance. At first, I think I am imagining it, but I turn and see the same shape as our cart.

  Are there two sacrifices?

  I slam my head with my bound fists, trying to use the pain to wake my memories.

  “Idiot,” says Jonas.

  How do the priests choose between us, then?

  I must think of this, and find out the answer. I must save myself. And Jonas.

  But then the cart comes close enough for me to see that there is no horse in the back, nor a boy.

  And those who rode in front wear white robes, like my own.

  The priests bow long before the cart stopped.

  “Prophets,” they whisper.

  Jonas whinnies.

  He is my only friend, and I have failed him. I have not saved him.

  “It is cold,” says Jonas.

  I want to put my arms around his head, but I cannot. I do not even lean against him.

  The cart stops. The prophets come out. There are five of them. One of them walks very slowly, deliberately. I see when he lifts my head to his that he is very old. His face is lined, but there is a kindness in him.

  I want to hate him, because he will soon be killing me, but I cannot.

  The priests hand their knives to the prophets, all but the oldest one who touched me.

  He motions one of the others forward, to cut the ropes between my hands.

  It is agony while the blood rushes back in. I lie on the ground, writhing.

  Jonas dances.

  To the side. Forward. To the side. And back again.

  Can he hear music?

  I catch a breath and push myself to my feet again. I will die standing, at least.

  The harness is taken from Jonas.

  He looks smaller now, against the meadow, against the sky and the stars, against the other horses, and even the prophets and priests.

  The older prophet puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me towards the meadow. I weep silently.

  Then we stop. I can see one of the mounds just ahead of us, to the left.

  There is nothing under my feet but hard, cold earth and a bit of grass.

  The prophet kneels and begins to pray.

  The others step back, turned away.

  He has no knife, I think. He cannot kill me. He is too old to do it with his hands.

  But when he is finished with his prayer, he stands, hands shaking, and nods. The other prophets come up to offer their knives. He hesitates a long moment, then takes one.

  He swings it towards me.

  I tell myself to remember the smell of the air, cold and sharp, with hints of mint and wild berries. This is life.

  I wait for the sting.

  But the prophet offers the knife to me. “Chosen one,” he whispers.

  No, I think. It cannot be. This is not what it meant.

  “Two sacrifices, pure,” he says. He pushes the knife at me again.

  Jonas whinnies.

  “My life or yours,” says the prophet steadily. “It is time. I am ready.”

  And Jonas?

  The other prophets murmur. One comes forward and whispers in the ear of the old one. He shakes his head and sends him back.

  “They will kill you,” he warns me. “Do not doubt it.”

  I look at Jonas. His coat is patchy, and his legs are lame.

  I take the knife.

  “Good,” says the old prophet.

  I throw it as far as I can. It is not as far as I had hoped.

  “Idiot,” says Jonas, as I throw myself at his back.

  I clutch the ragged tatters of his mane. And dig my heels into his side.

  He cannot gallop, or trot, but he can go faster than the old prophet can follow. And the others, behind him, wait for him to command them.

  He does nothing.

  I put my head down and let myself move with Jonas. I love the sound of his hoof beats. It is like dancing with him, but better. This is how it was meant to be.

  I look back once to see the prophet, his hand up above his head, as if waving to me.

  Then Jonas is speeding up.

  “Idiot,” he says again.

  NEEDLE AND SPIT

  It’s licking the needle that makes the difference. It doesn’t take a hundred stitches a square inch. They don’t have to pretty or straight. Or even made with thread. A blind woman who has gone mad can do it. So long as she licks the needle first.

  I’m nearly blind now, but when I get a needle in my hand and fabric under my fingertips, I know I’m not finished. There is still protection in the world while I can make it.

  My daughter might not know it. I protected her too much, I think, always folding her in a quilt. She saw me doing my work plenty, but she was the blind one. I was doing “woman’s work,” and what respectable woman does that these days? Not her.

  She’s a lawyer and makes plenty of money. She does
n’t need me to make her quilts. She pays for her protection, electronically. Lives in that glass house of hers and buys her quilts from a store, or on-line. I don’t know what they’re paying the women in El Salvador who make them, but I do know that it’s not enough for them to put protection into them.

  Sure, they may be beautiful, but you wrap up in them at night, and it’s just warmth you feel.

  As for the quilts made by machine, a pattern programmed in and then let go, never a human hand so much as touching the fabric, let alone the needle, from cutting to packaging, well, all I can say is, you get what you pay for.

  I went to visit her once.

  She thought she was doing me a favor, that was obvious. Went out of her way to come pick me up at the airport herself, because she wanted to prove to me that she loved me still, that she wouldn’t treat me badly, no matter how much she disapproved of how I had spent my life.

  She wore her hair up in a twist, so that you could see her earrings dangling, too big for her face. White blouse, black skirt and jacket, lawyer clothes, and not a bit of comfort in them.

  I think she had to try hard not to roll her eyes when I stepped into the baggage area in my quilted pajama pants and slippers, with an afghan in orange thrown over top.

  I didn’t mean to embarrass her. I hadn’t thought of it a bit when I left. I just wore what I always wear, what feels best on me. And I put an extra layer of quilting on, because everyone knows airports aren’t the safest place in the world these days.

  “Mother,” she said, coming close enough to me that I could smell her perfume. Expensive, musky. No flowers for her.

  She didn’t touch me. She stood at my side and her fingers twitched.

  “How many bags do you have?” she asked.

  “Three,” I said.

  “Three. You paid extra for a third?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  We waited for quite a while for them to appear on the carousel. Finally, the odd-shaped packages wrapped in black garbage bags dropped down.

  She didn’t even look at me. She walked over to them and yanked them off.

  “We can get a cart,” I said, because she looked like she was struggling.

  “I don’t need a cart,” she said, then took a deep breath.