Chapter 1: The Market
Scrub, scrub, scrub. This has been my morning since six o’clock. Two hours of scrubbing the main entrance floor, being on my aching knees, and working my fingers to the bone. I am working alone this morning because Penelope is helping in the kitchen. Penelope is my best and only friend, but we are like sisters. Her mother, Rasha, has been the only motherly figure I have known because my mother died in childbirth. I have never known my father, but neither has Penelope. Rasha told us they both died from an enigmatic illness before we were born. We are all servants in this palace; all of us serve Queen Darya, queen of all Catríona. Rasha told us stories when we were younger of how she used to be kind, gentle, and happy; but those days are long ago because she is cold, distant, and cruel. She is still gorgeous with her long, chocolate brown hair and sapphire eyes.
I suddenly hear the click-clack of shoes on the clean floor growing louder with each step. I stop scrubbing and look up to see Penelope’s long legs supporting her long, lean body. Her pragmatic eyes are brown, just like Rasha’s matronly eyes. Her dirty blonde hair bounces with each step she takes. Her birthday is in a few days, on the seventeenth of November; it will be her sixteenth. I remember how Rasha tells me how I look just like my mother: reddish-brown hair, brilliant green eyes, short stature, small torso, and the age of fifteen. Penelope says coolly, “Lia, my mother needs our aid with Queen Darya.” My full name is Rosalia, but everyone calls me Lia.
“What is it this time?” I ask impatiently. Queen Darya has random fits of rage and sometimes crippling nightmares; most of the time, she spends her time in the study deciding on how to benefit Catríona. There used to be a king to do that work, but he died before I was born. Queen Darya is the dowager queen of Catríona.
“I think she is having another fit, but hurry.”
I remove my fingers from the soapy rag to find my knuckles bloodied. I rip two strips of cloth from my apron and wrap them around each of my hands wincing at the contact with my knuckles. I stand up and follow Penelope obediently up the grand staircase and another spiral staircase to the queen’s room. As we approach the room, we hear screams of pain followed by mere seconds of silence. Penelope turns the elegant gold handle and pushes the great oak door in. The room is as I remember it from when I was younger and tagging along with Rasha: tall windows with heavy, navy blue curtains drew back, a marble fireplace with a small table with two chairs surrounding it, a huge bed with forest green privacy curtains also drawn back. My eyes immediately go to the bed, where Queen Darya is, screaming, thrashing her limbs, and bobbing her head in and out of the blankets. Rasha is beside her, holding her hand and attempting to assuage her by stroking her long hair. Rasha light brown hair is tied back in a loose braid, and her soft eyes are fixed upon Queen Darya. She motions us to come over. We silently obey. She whispers and points with her free hand. “Pour the medicine into the spoon and bring it here. It is on the table.”
We wordlessly walk over to the medicine bottle. Penelope pours the loose medicine into the spoon I am now holding. It smells of licorice and other roots, but is unpleasant. I tiptoe, trying to prevent a spill, and hand the spoon over to Rasha. Then I make terse eye contact with Queen Darya, and she shouts, “What is she doing here? I told you, Rasha, I never wanted to see her ugly little face ever again!” Rasha motions me to take Penelope and wait outside the room.
“Here is the new medicine, my queen. It will help you sleep and get rid of your nightmares.” Rasha shoves the spoon in Queen Darya’s mouth and waits until she swallows.
Meanwhile, I back towards Penelope with an inscrutable look engraved upon my face. What have I done to her? I know she is cruel, but this is new. I have been nothing but a loyal servant all fifteen years of my life, I cogitate. I grab Penelope’s arm angrily and open the door. We walk out and shut the door. As we wait, the screaming subsides and Rasha comes out shortly after. I wait for the handle to click and then start inquiring, “What have I done to her? Why is she acting this way to me? When did she say…”
Rasha stops me mid-sentence, “Her nightmares have been worse lately. You could have been in one. Do not take it personally, Lia.” She smiles reassuringly. Her matronly brown eyes, wrinkled and softened from time despite she is only in her early thirties, convince me that there is something furtive. Then she continues, “Would you two fetch me some things from the market?”
“Really? You would let us go to the market?” asks Penelope excitedly.
“You both are old enough, and you both need to experience what it is like outside the palace.” I cannot believe the words coming out of Rasha’s mouth: Penelope and I are going to go to the market! Neither one of us has been beyond the river surrounding the palace’s grass. “I will meet you in our room, so go get ready,” Rasha orders.
Penelope and I immediately start to out room, playing an impromptu race. Our happy feet carry our bodies swiftly to our room. We dash through the halls, when we reached the open stretch between our room and the main door. We run against each other. I win! I pull open the door. It appears to be small, but that is only because it is crowded with three beds, a narrow, shoulder-height dresser with three drawers and a pitcher full of water on top, a solitary lamp with unlit candles dangling from the ceiling, and a single window with the morning’s rays filling up the room. Penelope walks over to the dresser, pulls the top drawer out, rummages through the clothes, slides the drawer close, and tosses a small bundle at me. I shut the door and then sit on my bed. I unravel the bundle as Penelope hurriedly puts hers on.
I place the sweater above my head and thrust my head and arms through the correct holes. Next, I put each foot inside of its rightful stocking and make a cozy home for them in my slipper-like shoes. Lastly, I gently drape the shawl Rasha made for me around my shoulders. I look up to see Penelope is wearing hers too.
No more than two minutes later, Rasha peers in the room. She opens the door just a little bit more to let herself in, but then quickly shoves it back into its frame. She swiftly walks to my bed, where Penelope is now sitting beside me. She pulls out a small leather pouch and an even smaller piece of parchment, handing to pouch to Penelope and the parchment to me. She whispers so low that it is barely audible, “Take this.”
“But mother, this is almost all of your ritis.” She looks at her mother and mouths her thank you.
“I gave Lia the list. Purchase the items on the list and nothing else, do you understand?” We nod in unison as she gently kisses Penelope’s forehead and then mine. “Stay together, no matter what,” she warns.
We walk out of our room and to the servant’s main door; I stop by the kitchen to grab a wicker basket to carry our goods. Again, we move towards the door. Penelope grips my hand and I wince from the pain of my raw knuckles. I do not want to worry Penelope, so I hide my pain as much as I can. We exit through the door and squint to adjust to the sun. November’s cold air fills our lungs as we try to cough the invader out. We walk down the dirt path joking and gossiping about other servants and silly mistakes that we have made.
Suddenly, Penelope stops giggling and looks ahead. I look ahead too and then I am breathless. Rolling green hills surround us. We are standing at the entrance to a maze of bold tents crowd my vision, scents of incense, spices, roasting meats in cackling fires, and perfumes fill our noses and obscure talking amongst the customers and merchants fill the air. I decide to come back to reality by checking Rasha’s list. Her handwriting, just as graceful and beautiful as she, reads:
After reciting the list once more aloud to Penelope, I suspect that Rasha wants to prepare a birthday cake for Penelope’s birthday. She responds, “The sugar and the flour will probably be in the same tent, so we should get those first.” I nod my head, agreeing. We enter the labyrinth of merchants, their goods, and unappeasable customers.
As Penelope and I make our way through the crowd. Old men with long crooked beards and young men with clean-shaven shove their way past us. Fatigued mothers bouncing babes on their hips, balancing a bursting basket on their arm, and their shouted warnings are dripping from their lips take no notice of us. Young couples holding each other amorously are far off in a perfect world and stroll by us. Merchants drown out others’ chatter, calling out to the preoccupied passersby to purchase their perfumes, mid-day snacks, trinkets, and textiles.
Penelope and I meander on the obscure dirt paths. We are talking about what we should get for Rasha since she has been so kind to us until Penelope suddenly takes off. I stand still, hopping up to keep track of her head. Her head stops and then I start in the same direction. I swim through the sea off people just to get past. When I get to the mustard-yellow tent, I notice Penelope and a sausage-like man are in deep negotiation.
“How can two pounds of flour and one pound of sugar be five ritis?”
“I got to make a living somehow!”
“I am willing to pay you only three ritis, one for each pound.”
“Five ritis.”
“Three.”
“I have five mouths to feed, not including my own. The lowest I will go is four ritis.”
“Please, three ritis.”
“It’s four or nothing.”
“Fine,” Penelope says in acquiesce. She digs into the leather pouch for four ritis. She takes out the four round bronze metals and drops them into the man’s meaty hands. He wraps his fingers around them, avariciously, and smiles a toothless grin. Then, he hands Penelope a sack of sugar and a twice as large sack of flour. She places them in the wicker basket I am carrying and shoots a glare at the man’s baldhead. We walk away from the mustard tent, and I can see Penelope is obviously upset. I take her arm and pull her off the trafficked road.
“We can still get Rasha something,” I begin, assuaging her.
“We only have fifteen ritis left. By the time we buy the other items, we would not be able to buy her even a pebble.”
“If we save the left over ritis from toady, then when we come again and have the left over ritis we can buy her something.”
“Do you not understand? There is not going to be a next time for us. We are servants in the palace who are supposed to stay in the palace. This is a one in a lifetime experience for us.”
The truth of the words hit me like the morning’s crisp air on my lungs. I say in sorrow, “We should get the rest of the items then.”
An hour later, the wicker basket is full of all the goods we bought and the leather pouch still has eight ritis. We wander through the maze, searching for a gift. Rosemary on roasting lamb invades my nose and causes me to salivate. I turn my attention away. The sun is almost in its noon position, high above the common people when Penelope takes off again; this time I am following her intently. The crowd is less dense because we are towards the back of the market, so I can see where we are going more clearly. Penelope is propelling towards a deep-emerald tent where a young woman is sitting. All the other people pass her by without a single glance. As we approach the tent, I notice her brown hair hangs limply around her face, and she appears older than I would have guessed; her tanned skin from working under the sun days on end radiates her innocent beauty. I decide she cannot be too much older than Penelope is. When she notices us coming to her tent, her arid lips sinuate into a smile, revealing perfect teeth. I suddenly feel remorse and agony as I look at the girl.
Penelope, also perplexed by the girl’s old appearance, says, “How much is this locket?” She picks up a gold chain with a golden locket in the shape of a heart. The sun glints off the tip of the heart. I move my head slightly to avoid the sun’s rays in my eyes.
The girl’s pools of furrowed blue eyes blankly gaze into mine, causing me to feel the sensation of drowning, and then blink cautiously. Her melodious voice creeps into my ears. “That locket is ten ritis.”
“We only have eight ritis.”
“I am sorry, but I cannot change the price.”
I pipe up, “What if we bring you a drink of water.” I was not about to let the only chance of a gift for Rasha slip away.
The girl’s parched lips open slightly, as if she is about to say something and then close. She opens them again and says serenely, “I am awfully thirsty, and I cannot leave the tent. A drink of cool water would be nice. It is a deal then. You bring me a drink of water in exchange for the locket for eight ritis.” Penelope silently thanks me and then drops the locket into the girl’s calloused hands. The girl hands Penelope a smooth, wooden cup.
Penelope asks, “I am Penelope and this is Lia. Just in case we cannot find you, what is your name?”
“My name is Asta Lakiya, the farmer’s daughter, but you may call me Asta,” she responds, smiling. Penelope and I nod and leave. Asta’s tent is two over from the end of the row, so we go to the end and walk down a small hill to a dilapidated stone well. I suddenly notice the shortness of my breath and the weight of the wicker basket on my arm.
The cheerful sun sends a breeze, whipping my hair around my face and into my gasping mouth and makes Penelope’s gracefully dance as she reaches the well. I cover up my complaint not to worry Penelope. She has already dropped the bucket in the yawning well. I place the basket at the foot of the well and Penelope asks, “Lia, are you okay? You look sick.”
I prevaricate, “I am fine, just not used to the market.” I take the position at the handle to pull up the water-filled bucket. The weight is immense, but I clench my teeth to hide it from Penelope’s knowledge. The bucket finally comes up after endless cranking. My arms freeze in place until Penelope pours the extraneous water back into the well. I split my hands from the handle and resume the duty of holding the wicker basket on my arm. Penelope vigilantly carries the ladle back up the small hill. I slowly follow her, trying to catch my breath. She waits for my return at the top. I barely make it to Penelope, but I push myself to make it back to the emerald tent. Penelope looks at me, concerned, but then goes on her way back to the tent.
By the time Penelope and I make it back to Asta, the pounding of my heart drowns out all the noise of the market. I concentrate on the conversation between Penelope and Asta. Penelope hands over the water-filled ladle warily and Asta’s eyes light up. She puts the water to her parted lips and swallows every drop. Asta smiles and says after she finishes, “Thank-you kind Penelope and Lia. I will now sell the locket to you for eight ritis.” She pulls the golden locket out as Penelope dumps the remaining ritis from the leather pouch onto Asta’s table. The ritis clink as they hit each other and then the table.
Penelope smiles from ear to ear; as she secures the locket in the leather pouch, Asta turns her eyes to mine. Penelope follows Asta and looks at me. Their faces turn from bliss to distress. Their apprehensive faces shrink away as Penelope screams, “Lia!” Blackness engulfs noon’s abashed sun and the entire market.
This is the first chapter after the prologue. Again, I wrote this when I was 14, so it's not the greatest. Let me know what you think.