Under the Willow Root

Chapter 14

I open my eyes on darkness and fumble for my phone until I remember that I have no phone, and it's not Melanie or Tara in the bed next to me but Dove. I sit up, wondering if I can find my way back to the bathroom. Unlikely. I lie back down gingerly, trying to make as little noise as possible, and turn over.

I wish I had a glass of water. The more I try not to think about it, the thirstier I get. I toss and turn, unable to ignore my thirst but too tired to do anything about it. I drift in and out of sleep, one minute focused single-mindedly on every little discomfort from the dry skin on my hands to the itchy scabs on my scalp and the next reliving scenes of terror and bloodshed and starvation. At some point I cross over into true sleep, but it seems like only a few seconds go by before Dove is shaking me awake.

Through the window I can see that the sun hasn't even risen yet. I almost open my mouth to complain before I remember that I have no right to an opinion. I'm a slave, and a lucky one at that. I think of my narrow escape from the oily man and thank all my lucky stars that Ismeni happened to walk by that alley. Unconsciously, I reach for my throat and fumble for something that isn't there. I frown, wondering what it is that I'm looking for.

Dove hands me my dress and veil from yesterday and then pulls on a gown much like mine. It's simpler than the dresses I've seen her in so far. She leads me through the halls and, after a pitstop at the bathroom, out of the house. We head back down the central lane, accompanied by several other yawning, downtrodden looking people who must be slaves like us. I wonder where we're all going.

We pass through the narrow canyon with its carvings and emerge on the hillside above the city. But instead of going down the central road, we turn and walk along the cliff wall until we reach a squat, nondescript building with only a few vines and shrubs for decoration. The men from our group break off and go around the side of the building. The rest of us enter through a plain wooden door and I find myself in a room lined with benches and little cubbies. It's a locker room, I realize. Or something like it.

Dove and the other women remove their shoes and clothes, revealing the same starburst symbol that's been burned into my own hip. I jerk my eyes away as Dove pinches me, gesturing to the cubbies with a stern look. I reluctantly undress, half afraid that my clothes won't be there when I get back, that I'll be forced to go naked like an animal again. I wonder if I'll ever be able to take my clothes off again without feeling that small clench of fear in my stomach.

I follow Dove and the others into a warm room with a pool. We all get in and sit there for several minutes, enjoying the heat. No one speaks. By now I've accepted that, for whatever reason, slaves can't speak. I'm too tired to try to figure out why. I just tip my head back and doze until Dove shakes me awake and hands me a pot of the powdery soap.

I tip some into my palm and scrub myself as the others are doing and dunk myself under to rinse. It feels good. We leave the Warm Room and enter a Freaking Hot Room filled with steam. I breathe it in and feel like I'm drowning. I turn and try to go back the way we came, but Dove grabs my shoulder and gives me a firm push toward a bench in the center of the room. With a sigh that makes me cough and gag from the scented steam, I trudge over to the bench and sit down.

After several minutes, I get used to the steam and find it actually feels kind of nice to breathe it in, like it's cleaning out my airways, and the heat makes my muscles feel droopy and relaxed. If only we could talk to each other, it would actually be really pleasant. Once again I thank whoever might be listening for saving me from the oily man and placing me in a role which apparently demands that I hang out at the spa.

We leave the Steam Room and go back to the Warm Room for a brief dip, then go to a third room with a pool of cool water. It's wonderfully refreshing. I submerge myself completely, enjoying the feel of the water on my scalp. After a while, though, I get chilly and look around, wondering if I'm allowed to get out.

Afraid of stepping out of line, I wait for Dove to go first. When she does, the others and I follow. Attendants appear seemingly out of nowhere and sit some of the women down to trim, pluck, and wax them to perfection. Others leave after a brief inspection. While Dove gets her hair trimmed, an attendant looks me over and shakes her head as if wondering what on earth can be done to make me less hideous that hasn't already been done. Eventually she shrugs and hands me a towel before dismissing me.

I wrap the towel around myself and settle on a bench to wait for Dove. I'm cold, and want to go back to sleep. To keep myself awake, I swing my legs up on the bench and lean forward, stretching my back and hamstrings. The muscles are tighter than they've ever been in my life. I can barely touch my toes. I sigh and lean back against the wall with my legs still stretched out, alternately pointing and flexing my feet until Dove is done with her haircut.

We put our clothes back on and head back to the house. By this time, the sun is up and people--real people, not just slaves--are out and about. They pay absolutely no attention to us. As we go through the canyon of pictures, a party of well-dressed men approach. Dove pulls me aside and pushes me down to my knees. She touches the knuckles of one hand to her forehead like she did for Ismeni. She reaches out and I hastily copy her before she can pinch me again.

I stare at the ground and wait for the rich people to pass so I can get up. There's a rock digging into my knee, but I'm afraid to move even a little bit. I can't help jerking in surprise, however, when a furry mass crashes into my stomach and knocks me over.

I scramble backwards and press against the canyon wall. The thing--I think it's a little dog of some kind--comes after me and plants its paws on my knees. I get a brief glimpse of bright black eyes and a button nose at the end of a pointed snout before that same nose is shoved into my face.

The dog's bushy tail whacks against my shins as the dog washes my face with its tongue. I twist my face away and try to push it off me, but it squirms away from my hands. I want to laugh. I twist my fingers into soft fur and tuck my chin to my chest, scrunching my face up against the dog's enthusiastic assault.

A voice calls out and the dog dashes away after one last slurp from chin to forehead. Once I wipe the dog spit from my eyes I can see that it's not a dog at all but a fox. It races toward a smiling young man dressed in well-cut leather and makes a flying leap into his arms. Another man who looks like his brother laughs as the fox tries to lick its master's face. I forget for a moment that I'm supposed to be staring at the ground. My eyes are glued to the man's face--the one with the fox. His smile is seared into my brain like the memory of a camera's flash.

Dove pinches me again. I hastily avert my eyes, but the two men don't even look our way before continuing down the path. We might as well be carvings on the wall. We're nothing. I stare after them through my eyelashes and try to hold back the shame and despair that floods my stomach.