Stalemate

Chapter 11

Ashtin hummed until her throat was raw. Her arms hung in front of her, slacked and numb. Her wrists burned with the occasional trickle of blood down her sleeves. Maud's sweaty hands were still clamped between her knees, and now her head was resting on her lap too. The carriage was quiet now. The sniffling and coughing had ceased.

Clothed by the darkness, Ashtin wondered if the silence meant the others were dead.

They must have been there for days. Ashtin's stomach was ravenous. Against her own accord, her weary mind remembered the tang of spiced gumbo that traveled up between the houses on Cherry Hill. In the summertime, when it was too hot to keep the door shut, the propped screen door welcomed sweet blackcap preserves. On seldom occasion— if their finances allowed for it— she and Doon managed to get a hold of a bowlful of gumbo or one of the baker's pastries. There hadn't been such luxury since Pa left. Even the ripe herbs and vegetables Doon brought back in his satchel would suffice, bruises and all. She'd fire up the burner and let a stew simmer all day long. At times, a measly potato stew seemed to be Doon's grand reward for a day's work. After he came home and Ashtin assessed his backside, he'd throw open the door and plop down at the kitchen table, practically savage. Then he'd devour as many bowlfuls as the pot could produce.

Ashtin's insides churned and twisted as she tortured herself with the thought of food. She could almost taste it, though her mouth was far too dry to salivate. The scent of it was as vivid as if it were being held right in front of her face.

It went on like this for hours. The carriage stopped only twice, briefly, without the doors being opened. Ashtin slept mostly, because that was all there was to do. She hummed that melody, she tried to think of anything but her bloodied wrists and hungry stomach. Above all, she tried not to think of Doon.

The carriage stopped a third time. By then, Ashtin could hardly keep her head upright, and Maud hadn't stirred in hours. There were no birdsongs or leaves rustling. There was distant chatter, a muffled clinking sound.

Then, scuffing footsteps approaching the door. Ashtin's heart leapt.

The sharp swipe of the door latch. Maud lifted her head.

The doors creaked open.

Outside there was desolation. Exposed red-orange earth, all cracked and dried by the harsh sun. A horizon of lifeless gray mountains. There were no trees in sight. It was a barren wasteland but for the occasional dried weed poking from a crevice. And a few yards away, lines of men with hammers clamoring down on nails. Work mules pulled trolleys filled with cast iron rails. Ashtin raised her head slightly, squinting to adjust to the light. There was the strident sound of rails being dropped, then sharp spikes fixing them into the dead earth.
Before she could make out any real detail, the scar-faced man appeared in the doorway; she was quite tired of seeing his face. Emotionless, he crawled in and began unfastening the passengers' shackles. He started at the back, one by one. Then, he tossed them outside into the arms of two gigantic Dordan men, who guided them away. Ashtin trembled as the Dordan unfastened the shackles of the man sitting next to her. She stared outside. The sight was jarring. Ashtin had never seen such an arid landscape. Somehow it did not surprise her; no wonder they came to Minara.

Ashtin braced herself. She watched the Minarian man's face as he crawled out. Underneath all the soot and dirt, there was no distinguishable fear. He followed the line of other men. There were only Ashtin and Maud left in the carriage now. And when the Dordan got to Ashtin, he only stared at her. His piercing blue eyes were fogged over with some other thought, far from here. She moved her wrists, almost thankful to have them freed, but he left them. Then he glanced at Maud, who was pressed against the opposite bench, still on the floor. She was scowling at him.