Read Online Riding the Serpent's Back by Keith Brooke - Free Book Online
Authors: Keith Brooke
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speaking, Leeth had prepared the fire and then warmed some of the local maize gruel they called ‘atole’ in an earthenware pot. “I heard about the uprising,” he said, as he handed Cotoche a dish and piece of hard bread. It had taken place two years before his break for freedom. “They said it was all political.”
“As political as empty bellies,” said Cotoche bitterly.
Somewhere in the distance, a sudden burst of wailing pierced the night, a chilling counterpoint to Cotoche’s reference to her wailing sisters. The sound rose then died away quickly and Leeth decided it was not to mark a death, but rather the symbolic mourning of the faithful after a birth: a new child was always grieved because of the inevitability that, however far in the future, another death would be added to the world’s burden.
“How did you meet Chi?”
Cotoche smiled. “First of all at market in Catachris. The next time I saw him was at Tomas Melved’s official residence.”
~
Cotoche and her sisters fled the town of Catachris as soon as it was dark. They packed what food they could find and, each wearing a red scarf of mourning, they set out into the night.
The streets were busy and it was soon clear that most of the Habnathi population of the town had made the same decision. Refugee camps grew up in the climactic forest, the strong supporting the weak in the traditional way of their people. Racial memory was dredged for the survival techniques the Habnathi had relied upon in earlier pogroms. Barely drinkable water came from traps set up to catch moisture condensing out of the brown steam clouds at night. Parties of children were sent out to scavenge grubs and seeds from the forest, while adults hunted squirrels and dogs and the occasional half-starved deer. Some of the elders even began to talk of the possibility of creating their own self-sustaining community along traditional lines.
After five weeks of this existence, the rains returned. Immediately, the camps broke up as labourers went back to the fields where long-dormant crops, now blessed with moisture, had started to sprout once again. It was almost as if the riots had never taken place.
Cotoche returned to Catachris on her own, her sisters choosing instead to join the work gangs in the fields. Apart from a few burnt scars and a scattering of ruined buildings, the town seemed unchanged by the recent troubles. Hochi and Allasharne had said they could never bear to enter those streets again but Cotoche knew the memories would be with her wherever she chose to live: a street was just a street, after all, it had no hold over her.
She had not counted on Tomas Melved, though. She had not even been aware that he had noticed her, when she had lived in the lean-to behind his stables.
She found work in a silk parlour. She picked the skill up easily and soon grew accustomed to long days degumming the cocoons in filthy water, drawing out the single filament from each one and then rolling the strands together between palm and bare thigh. Soon, she became a favourite of Aslet Roch, the sunken-chested man who managed the parlour, and went on to learn weaving and even to help with the printing.
It came as a great shock to her that Roch’s interest was in anything but her dexterity and growing skill. He was married and particularly ugly and so when he started to take her with him to his little stall at the market, and when he held her close to him to help her through the crowd, she took is as the act of a kindly uncle, no more.
Soon, he had her standing on the rickety stall, swathes of fine silk wrapped around her slim body to advertise his wares. “Twist,” he would mutter to her breathlessly. “Twirl. Shake that ass!” She quite enjoyed her new role: from her vantage point she could look out over the ever-changing patterns of the crowd that filled the low-ceilinged market hall; she could see all the different stalls, with their meats and greens and spices, their silks and
“As political as empty bellies,” said Cotoche bitterly.
Somewhere in the distance, a sudden burst of wailing pierced the night, a chilling counterpoint to Cotoche’s reference to her wailing sisters. The sound rose then died away quickly and Leeth decided it was not to mark a death, but rather the symbolic mourning of the faithful after a birth: a new child was always grieved because of the inevitability that, however far in the future, another death would be added to the world’s burden.
“How did you meet Chi?”
Cotoche smiled. “First of all at market in Catachris. The next time I saw him was at Tomas Melved’s official residence.”
~
Cotoche and her sisters fled the town of Catachris as soon as it was dark. They packed what food they could find and, each wearing a red scarf of mourning, they set out into the night.
The streets were busy and it was soon clear that most of the Habnathi population of the town had made the same decision. Refugee camps grew up in the climactic forest, the strong supporting the weak in the traditional way of their people. Racial memory was dredged for the survival techniques the Habnathi had relied upon in earlier pogroms. Barely drinkable water came from traps set up to catch moisture condensing out of the brown steam clouds at night. Parties of children were sent out to scavenge grubs and seeds from the forest, while adults hunted squirrels and dogs and the occasional half-starved deer. Some of the elders even began to talk of the possibility of creating their own self-sustaining community along traditional lines.
After five weeks of this existence, the rains returned. Immediately, the camps broke up as labourers went back to the fields where long-dormant crops, now blessed with moisture, had started to sprout once again. It was almost as if the riots had never taken place.
Cotoche returned to Catachris on her own, her sisters choosing instead to join the work gangs in the fields. Apart from a few burnt scars and a scattering of ruined buildings, the town seemed unchanged by the recent troubles. Hochi and Allasharne had said they could never bear to enter those streets again but Cotoche knew the memories would be with her wherever she chose to live: a street was just a street, after all, it had no hold over her.
She had not counted on Tomas Melved, though. She had not even been aware that he had noticed her, when she had lived in the lean-to behind his stables.
She found work in a silk parlour. She picked the skill up easily and soon grew accustomed to long days degumming the cocoons in filthy water, drawing out the single filament from each one and then rolling the strands together between palm and bare thigh. Soon, she became a favourite of Aslet Roch, the sunken-chested man who managed the parlour, and went on to learn weaving and even to help with the printing.
It came as a great shock to her that Roch’s interest was in anything but her dexterity and growing skill. He was married and particularly ugly and so when he started to take her with him to his little stall at the market, and when he held her close to him to help her through the crowd, she took is as the act of a kindly uncle, no more.
Soon, he had her standing on the rickety stall, swathes of fine silk wrapped around her slim body to advertise his wares. “Twist,” he would mutter to her breathlessly. “Twirl. Shake that ass!” She quite enjoyed her new role: from her vantage point she could look out over the ever-changing patterns of the crowd that filled the low-ceilinged market hall; she could see all the different stalls, with their meats and greens and spices, their silks and
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