Saraiyu

7- Saraiyu Urbán-Vallejo

She tossed and turned. The rainforest was not a quiet place. When she finally was lulled into a half sleep, where the world was hazy with the mist of exhaustion, she dreamed of big men approaching her, with 50 heads, they unbuckled their belts to reveal the face of a monkey which would screech angrily and swipe at her face.

Lárima didn't hear the horses or the footsteps, she was too busy fending off her nightmares, fighting for survival. Voices were muffled in the moisture of the forest and they were just silhouettes in her dreams. She was carried, but she imagined herself flying, she was a bird soaring over the jungle and forest and moving back to the place where she had been a commoner for nine years. Where she only had to worry about food and money and not about poison and knives. She didn't have to worry about threats to her country and about the man who was to be married to her. She only had to worry about threats of a spanking from Ammi Inés, or threats to not receive any meals if she didn't clean out the horse troughs. 

They tied her and gagged her, and put a knife to her chest. And she pretended to be tangled in the cheap and scratchy sheets of her cot in the inn where she worked. In her mind the knife was a splinter on the bed post and the gag was hair in her mouth.

When they pinched her, she thought of being thrown on the rose bush by Jámero. The roses were the cruel hands and the gruff voices were the roses whispering in the wind, the stems wrapped around her. The roses choked her, the thorns pierced her skin and drew blood everywhere they touched her. Suddenly her blissful dream had turned into a nightmare. She wanted Ammi Inés and Jámero to lend their familiar and comforting warmth. She wanted to smell the scent of the freshly brewed café com leite, she wanted to stick her finger into the jar of dulce de leche and lick the sweet taste of rebellion. She wanted to sneak bites of an oblea with arequipe and dulce de leche. She wanted to go back with a time machine where she didn't have to deal with the roses hurting her.

She was crying by the time the smoke riddled dream faded into nothing and reality pinched her skin.

"'Ello princess, how did you sleep?"

Another voice chanted, singing the national anthem of Itslí. Mocking her and making her beloved country be tainted by their darkness.

Lárima wailed into her gag, and her tears drenched her soul, cleaning it. She had been strong for much too long. These men were just dirt under her shoe, it didn't matter they saw her cry.

She surrendered into the deep slumber of self defense.

When she next opened her eyes she was alone in a dark, enclosed space, still tied and gagged. At least a they had left.

She heard the sound of liberty in a man's singing voice, she heard another voice, a girl's voice joining it. The song was the one sung in the region of Itslí where she grew up. It was in an old language that had died when technology did, no one knew what it meant anymore, all they knew was that is was about liberty and freedom and happiness and love.

Moving desperately, Lárima inched forward and listened to the song of her childhood, humming along.

She heard the sound of a guitar, an accordion and a flute in her mind, the traditional instruments that went along with the song, that had somehow survived the collapse.

She smiled, seeing hope for the first time in a while. Suddenly she saw light, she looked up and a small pair of hands showed themselves.

"Hola," a girl of about four years greeted Lárima, taking off her gag.

"Aló."

The girl crawled further into the enclosure and untied Lárima's legs and arms.

"Come," the girl with a honey smile ordered, taking Lárima's hand. Lárima was wary, but trusted the little girl.