CLOCKWORK PHOENIX 2: More Tales of Beauty and Strangeness by Mike Allen
Authors: Mike Allen
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Merentari used to scrub Nefret clean. Her brisk ministrations were as unlike the gentle service of the slaves as the dull, repetitive food was to the feasts of the temple, but it did the work; Nefret was as clean as she’d been since coming to this place she refused to call home. Her mahogany skin glowed, and Merentari scraped her thick hair back into two braids so tight they made Nefret’s head ache. Instead of Merentari’s cast-off clothing, she wore a thin robe she had never seen before, plain, but neatly pleated, and of good linen.
When Nefret was clean and dressed, Merentari took her roughly by the chin and forced the girl to look at her. Taller than this woman they said was her mother, Nefret felt calm superiority envelop her. She might be in exile, but she still had her pride.
“You keep your mouth shut, except when he asks you a question,” Merentari said. “You be polite and meek. This might be your one chance at any kind of future, girl. If you spit on this, you’ll end your days as a beggar in the streets. Understand?”
Nefret did not, but she learned quickly enough. A man came to inspect her—Nefret’s mind would not let go of that word. Inspect , as a temple servant might inspect a cow offered for sacrifice. There were men, it seemed, who would pay a good bride-price for a woman who was once a goddess, men interested enough in prestige that they did not care how bad a wife they bought.
Nefret kept her mouth shut, but not for the reasons her mother might have wished. She thought she might be sick. Reduced to this, after the life she had lived: bought and sold, like livestock.
The man did not speak to her at all, questions or otherwise. When his inspection was done, he turned to Merentari. “Can she cook? Weave? Sew?”
Lying was not among Merentari’s talents. Her hesitation was answer enough.
“I didn’t expect it,” the man said. His own robe was finely woven, with azure embroidery along the edge. Such as he would have some servants, possibly even slaves. Wealth, by the standards of this hovel. “Teach her basic domestic duties. If she passes muster by flood-time, I’ll buy her.”
Merentari’s weathered face showed gratitude that bordered on fawning. She was not old, but hard work had aged her young. Beauty was a luxury few peasants could afford. “Yes, noble one. Thank you. I will make sure she learns.”
When the wealthy man was gone, Merentari turned to her daughter. “You will learn. Or you will starve.”
* * *
In the dark hours before dawn, when Nefret so frequently lay awake, she knew that Merentari did not mean to make her suffer. The woman was harsh because there was no other choice; she did not want her daughter to end like this, scraping the barest existence out of the hard-packed dirt. Pity would not buy her a better future.
In the bright hours of day, Nefret hated her mother with a passion she fancied rivaled the rages of Hathirekhmet herself.
Merentari bent grimly to the task of making her daughter into a suitable wife. A thick reed from the riverbank became an all-too-familiar fixture in Merentari’s hand, laying burning lines across Nefret’s back when she rebelled. Never before had she been beaten; rarely had she even suffered pain, and then slaves had raced to bring soothing ointment, tea to numb her senses. Pride kept Nefret’s jaw clenched; she cried out the first few times, but soon forbade herself such weakness.
She tried—if only because it was a path for her to follow, and promised a life more like the one she knew. But the shuttle and thread were alien in her hands, the cook-fire smoky and foul. Other girls learned these skills from childhood, practicing them for years under their mothers’ eyes. The priests had taught Nefret all the wrong things, and then dropped her into a life for which she was wholly unprepared.
She tried, and she failed, until one day she could endure no more and ran away again, her feet this time taking her in a new
When Nefret was clean and dressed, Merentari took her roughly by the chin and forced the girl to look at her. Taller than this woman they said was her mother, Nefret felt calm superiority envelop her. She might be in exile, but she still had her pride.
“You keep your mouth shut, except when he asks you a question,” Merentari said. “You be polite and meek. This might be your one chance at any kind of future, girl. If you spit on this, you’ll end your days as a beggar in the streets. Understand?”
Nefret did not, but she learned quickly enough. A man came to inspect her—Nefret’s mind would not let go of that word. Inspect , as a temple servant might inspect a cow offered for sacrifice. There were men, it seemed, who would pay a good bride-price for a woman who was once a goddess, men interested enough in prestige that they did not care how bad a wife they bought.
Nefret kept her mouth shut, but not for the reasons her mother might have wished. She thought she might be sick. Reduced to this, after the life she had lived: bought and sold, like livestock.
The man did not speak to her at all, questions or otherwise. When his inspection was done, he turned to Merentari. “Can she cook? Weave? Sew?”
Lying was not among Merentari’s talents. Her hesitation was answer enough.
“I didn’t expect it,” the man said. His own robe was finely woven, with azure embroidery along the edge. Such as he would have some servants, possibly even slaves. Wealth, by the standards of this hovel. “Teach her basic domestic duties. If she passes muster by flood-time, I’ll buy her.”
Merentari’s weathered face showed gratitude that bordered on fawning. She was not old, but hard work had aged her young. Beauty was a luxury few peasants could afford. “Yes, noble one. Thank you. I will make sure she learns.”
When the wealthy man was gone, Merentari turned to her daughter. “You will learn. Or you will starve.”
* * *
In the dark hours before dawn, when Nefret so frequently lay awake, she knew that Merentari did not mean to make her suffer. The woman was harsh because there was no other choice; she did not want her daughter to end like this, scraping the barest existence out of the hard-packed dirt. Pity would not buy her a better future.
In the bright hours of day, Nefret hated her mother with a passion she fancied rivaled the rages of Hathirekhmet herself.
Merentari bent grimly to the task of making her daughter into a suitable wife. A thick reed from the riverbank became an all-too-familiar fixture in Merentari’s hand, laying burning lines across Nefret’s back when she rebelled. Never before had she been beaten; rarely had she even suffered pain, and then slaves had raced to bring soothing ointment, tea to numb her senses. Pride kept Nefret’s jaw clenched; she cried out the first few times, but soon forbade herself such weakness.
She tried—if only because it was a path for her to follow, and promised a life more like the one she knew. But the shuttle and thread were alien in her hands, the cook-fire smoky and foul. Other girls learned these skills from childhood, practicing them for years under their mothers’ eyes. The priests had taught Nefret all the wrong things, and then dropped her into a life for which she was wholly unprepared.
She tried, and she failed, until one day she could endure no more and ran away again, her feet this time taking her in a new
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