Tales from Virdinia

Silver

The sun beat down on them all mercilessly, but the old woman felt it the worst. Her skin was a leathery brown from a life outdoors, and she walked with a stiff shuffling gait that told of a body full of aches and knots. Each day, she would walk the perimeter of the fence again and again, lap upon lap, the other prisoners watching her with bored expressions. They did not trouble her though, why should they? She was old and weak, there no honour to be gained.

Tinan Prison held thirty women, thirty of the worst. Once they had been nomads, Followers of Dusk, raiders who wandered the rainforest of Virdinia. They would attack the settlements, the travelers and the traders. It was all for honour, to prove yourself in battle before your God, yet they never killed. Skill was shown in the disarmament of your opponent, in the shame of them being at your mercy. It went both ways, though. Being captured was a shame you could not recover from, the God of the Dusk would never allow it, and those they attacked knew it.

Ten years ago, these women had come from the ravine that snaked its way through the lush mountains nearby, as the sun had begun to set. Again and again they had caused mayhem, destroying property and plantations, ambushing travelers and fighting all they could find. Many of the women had been killed during their raids but, if they could, the settlements had captured them and locked them away. They knew that a life in a prison, to be treated like livestock, that was the ultimate humiliation for these women.

The prison was deep in the rainforest, just a high fence built of large wooden stakes, it ringed by a deep trench. There was no shelter, just the hard ground and the trees above. Each month, five men and women would be sent from the nearby settlements to act as guards. They would bring the smallest amount of food needed for the women to survive, and after that they left them alone.

It was midday, all the other women had taken to the shade given by the large, overhanging trees, but not the old woman. She just kept walking, sucking at what teeth she had left. She had been old, almost too old when they had began their raids, and life in the prison had done her few favours. A sudden shriek from above caused her to stop and she looked up. She could just make out the branches above, and the red flowers that smothered them. There was another rustle, followed by more shrieking as two feathered lizards fought, they snapping their jaws and whipping their tails against the boughs. Suddenly, something fell from the leaves and landed at the old woman's feet. Her knees cracking, she lowered herself down and plucked at it with wrinkled fingers. It was a seed, large and flat and full of life. Grinning, the old woman closed her fingers around it, hiding it. Humming to herself, she shuffled back towards her crude shelter of sticks and leaves, it covered with a dirty blanket.

The ground was dry and dusty, baked hard by the sun. Searching through her shelter, the old woman laughed as she found her cup, her only material possession. It was half full of water, what remained of her daily ration and she paused for a moment, considering. Then, she poured it on the ground, in the shade of her shelter, softening it enough so that she could bury the seed. She would be thirsty tonight.

Dusk came again, proof that their God still watched, and the women prayed to the coming darkness. They sat in a large circle, eyes closed, rocking and chanting. But all the old woman could think of was the seed. When they opened their eyes, night had come and the old woman looked up from her feet, and straight into the piercing gaze of a younger woman, one that held almost all the honour. The scars told of this, especially the one that ran from her temple to her chin. Her eyes were inky black and unrelenting, staring out from under lank brown hair. Had she seen, the old woman wondered, did she know?

Dusk came again and again, and for the longest while the ground gave no hint of life to the old woman. She remained committed, however, even if the seed refused. It was well watered, and kept cool in the shade, surely that was enough? The old woman walked less now, choosing instead to sit beside her shelter and wait. The others marked the change in her, but none cared, none but the scarred woman with the black eyes.

Then, one morning, a silver shoot appeared. The old woman wanted to dance and laugh, but her body would not allow it. Besides, this was her secret, and one the others could easily destroy. It would have to be protected, watched over and mothered. No one could know, the old woman was certain of this.

She shared her water ration with the shoot each day, and soon it rewarded her with a single leaf. It was silver too, and the old woman nearly wept. She had never seen such a plant, nor felt such happiness in years. It was growing, thriving, and still the woman with the black eyes watched. It made the old woman nervous, and she was afraid to leave her shelter. She did not walk now, except to prayer, and her body began to seize and ache. Another leaf, and then another, made it worth the pain. The plant was strong now, it straining for the sun.

One morning, a shadow fell across the old woman and she looked up. A bull of a woman stood before her, all muscle and scars. She all fear and honour. The plant hid behind the old woman and she shuffled backwards, blocking it with her body. It meant nothing to this giant though, and she hoisted the old woman up effortlessly, ignoring her cries. The plant had been revealed now, and this invader looked down at it, all under watchful black eyes. She knelt and the old woman bared her teeth, it all she could do. She knew that the plant would die now. Thick fingers reached out and stroked a leaf, the woman's fascination written across her features. The old woman held her breath, yet this newcomer nothing but allow herself the smallest of smiles.

She returned later with water of her own, wordlessly adding her ration to that of the old woman's. The secret was out now, and still the old woman was filled with fear. More women came, bringing their scars and their honour. They brought their water too. Almost all watched the plant now, waiting for it to grow. More leaves appeared and the plant strained for the sun. Yet, for all its efforts, its silver body was too thin, and soon it could not sustain its weight or its ambition. It was a slim woman, one with bronze skin, who saved the plant, she strapping its limbs to a frame of wood.

Soon, the plant grew taller than the old woman's shelter, and this was too much for the woman with the black eyes. The next morning she pushed her way through the group, and once again the old woman thought it was the end. Once again she was surprised. Black eyes and scars, honour, they meant nothing to the group in the face of the plant. She tried to crush the plant with a foot, but was knocked down and sent away in her shame. None would let the plant come to harm. It was too big now, too fascinating.

Dusk kept coming, and their God kept watching, and the plant kept growing. Now, it was as tall as the old woman and, to her delight, a single flower unfurled. Its petals were pointed like blades, six of them reaching out from within a pool of black. All came to see after that, even the one with the black eyes.

That night, after dusk had given way to night, a dozen more flowers opened. Beneath a blanket of stars a light wind tugged at the plant, and it finally revealed its secret. Thick pollen filled the air, it swirling amongst them in lines of silver. It swept across the ground, billowing in clouds that rose to the canopy above. The women stood in their prison, and the old woman held out her hand, laughing as the pollen danced images of flowers and animals across her palm. All around them, their prison suddenly burst into silvery life, plants erupting from the ground at their feet. They rose to tower above them, blocking out the stars with wide leaves and beautiful flowers, filling every inch of their confinement. The women danced that night, they knowing it was but a mirage, a dream for them all to share.

The next day, dusk came again and the women prayed, sitting upon the dry, lifeless ground. The old woman did not join them, however. She lay still and silent, beneath the branches of a silver tree.