Twisting Every Way

Chapter 2

The muddy path blubbered as air escaped with every clumsy step. Emya's feet slid around in boots too big for her, but she hurried along as fast as she could. Eyes cast down, rain drizzled on her hunched shoulders and soaked hair, dripping off the end of her nose. Her neighbors' feet moved away as she passed. Her destination was the village square, though she wished to go nowhere near it. Kamala had a task for her to complete, and to fail to do so would ensure a punishment.

Muddy paths gradually gave way to warn cobble paving. When she reached the edge of the square she halted. At the center of the largest open space in the village loomed an old well, the main water source for the village. Beyond the well was the council chamber—or the 'throne room,' as they were now to call it. The chamber was made of tall, black stone from a faraway mountain that their ancestors had harvested to create sanctuary and community. A sanctuary no more.

It never had been a sanctuary for Emya, but now the center of village life was the most avoided place in the little settlement, and Emya, the most avoided inhabitant, was sent to draw water from the well for the whole village. Several times a day, she found herself alone at the well. Eyeing the great, carved throne room doors, silent and still, from her perch at the edge of the paving, she hoped and prayed that they would remain closed as she scurried forward. An unsettling feeling gripped her. Her skin tingled and the hair on her arms stood up. A thick soup of energy radiated from the throne room.

Taking a deep, calming breath, she crossed the short distance to the well, picked up the coiled rope, tied her bucket, and tossed it in. The well was almost full from all the rain they'd had. She winced as the rope dug into her as she hauled the heavy bucket up. The skin on her shoulders had been raw from repeated use. Adjusting the rope, she glanced at the throne room doors which still did not stir.

They called themselves the Kings, the men who'd conquered the village almost one month ago. Among other strange decrees, they'd forbidden the villagers from collecting water from any sources except the well. The collection of rainwater was forbidden, as were trips to the stream that flowed through the valley during the rainy season. Storing water in barrels also had been outlawed, a concerning change as the well would all but dry up in the coming dry season. She had no idea why they'd declared such an insane edict in a land where water was scarce most of the year.

The bucket scrapped and bumped the side of the well as she pulled it. Water sloshed back into the well, the splash echoing in the silent stillness.

A blood-curdling scream pierced through the silence. The rope dropped from her hands. Scrambling, heart pounding, she slid through the mud around the well and pushed her back against its bricks. Pressing her hands over her face, she trembled in terrified anticipation and waited.

Silence settled once more over the dreary village. Cautiously peeking over the well, she found the throne room doors still shut and the square empty but for herself. She stood slowly, keeping her eyes on the doors, and nervously wiping the mud off her pants as best she could. Her tunic was torn a little at the seam. An easy fix, but Kamala would be cross.

The rope had not fallen into the well, much to her relief. She picked it up, all but running the bucket up the well, ignoring the burning in her shoulder. When the bucket reached the edge of the well, she lifted it out, filled to the brim. Impossibly full. She tipped a little back in.

Hefting the bucket handle in both hands, holding it away so as not to bump it, she ambled back into the village. As she left the square behind and made her way deeper into the village, the inhabitants materialized, hurrying along on some errand or another, or standing around, leaning against their houses. Averting her eyes, she concentrated on the muddy path.

A woman worked outside her small, grey house, pulling weeds from the small garden of potatoes, carrots, and herbs. She looked up and scowled as Emya approached. Without speaking, Emya placed the bucket near the woman and turned to leave.

"Wait," the woman snapped. Arms crossed and shoulders hunched, Emya looked at the woman through her lashes.

"This is a lot of water. How did you get this much? I could never have done it. Not even my husband could have done this."

She should have dumped out more, but then the woman probably would have found some other fault in her work.

"I've been pulling a lot of water," Emya said with a shrug. "I've gotten good at it."

The woman stood and took a step forward, her hand slightly raised as if she intended to hit Emya but she thought better of it.

"Just go," she said, "but if something happens to my garden, I'll be seeing Kamala."

No one could prove there was anything wrong with the water. Anything could kill off her garden. Plants died, either eaten by bugs or sickness or in this case overwatering, because the rain had saturated the soil. Why the woman needed more water from the well was beyond Emya, but she could still be punished whether she was guilty or not.

Eager to be far from the irate woman, Emya pivoted in the mud, then stopped, and stepped back. A beast of a man towered over her. He wore only a crudely-fashioned fur cloth around his waist. One of the older village men recognized the fur and said it came from an animal called a tiger. He had said that warriors who wore it had fought and killed the beast with their bare hands. The rest of his body was exposed, and his head, arms, legs, and chest were shaven to better display the patterns of scars and ink.

King Azo regarded her with cold blue eyes. She stumbled back into the garden. The woman stood behind her, frozen and fearful.

"Who are you?" King Azo demanded, gesturing lazily at Emya.

"Emya," she said, her voice so soft that she wasn't sure he'd heard her.

"Were you at the well just now?"

"Yes."

"She's the one I was telling you of," the woman cut in, eager to please.

"Quiet." With one powerful hand, he smacked the woman across the face, knocking her off her feet. She lay in a heap, unmoving. Emya stood in frozen, wide-eyed fear.

"We told all the villagers they must use the well, yet you are the only one who draws water from it. Why is that?"

Emya searched for her voice but it was gone. He tilted his head irritably. She sucked in a breath to speak.

"I go for them." She forced the words out in a ragged breath.

"You get the water for the whole village?"

She nodded.

"You could not. You do not have the strength. It would take all day and night, yet you do it in a few hours?"

"I don't get water for everyone," she lied. "Some go when I can't."

"No," he said. "They don't. We would know if they did. It's only you."

Emya clenched her jaw fearfully. She knew what he was implying, but she could not say it, no matter what. If the Kings knew, they'd use her. The councilors, according to Kamala, made it very clear no one was to tell the Kings what she was capable of. She glanced at the woman still lying on the ground. She had not headed the councilors decree, and now Emya would pay, one way or another.

"You don't know that you get the water for the whole village? You just do it?"

"I guess."

To her surprise, he nodded, as though he believed her. Maybe he really did.

"You will come to the throne room at sunset." He turned and sauntered off, leaving Emya dumbstruck. When he was out of sight, she glowered down at the woman who stirred and sat up.

"You told him," Emya said flatly.

"Yes, I did," she said defiantly, "and I was rewarded handsomely."

"I can see that."

"This," she touched her already bruising face, "is nothing."

She got to her feet and marched into her house, slamming the door pointedly behind her. Emya thought she heard a muffled sob.