Читать книгу The Stringless - Alisha Walkerden - Страница 3

Just before dawn, a symphony of strings descended from the heavens. A low hum reverberated through the sky as they slipped through the wind and wisps of clouds. The opaque tendons lingered in the early rays of sunlight. They crept towards their targets with precision—attaching themselves to heads, hands and feet.

The stillness of a sleeping woman was disturbed as the strings forced her to wake. Serie groaned, squeezing her eyes shut just a moment longer, but the pull of her strings to raise her from the bed took over.

Her feet stomped over to the dresser. Her hand clasped onto the drawer as she pulled it open. In her head, she counted every second it took for her to perform each action—the same ones she had done every day of her life.

Serie gazed at herself in the mirror and watched her hands straighten her work shirt. Her fingers combed through the tangles in her hair.

“Serie,” her mother called. “Breakfast is ready.”

She sighed as her feet walked her to the kitchen. Her mother stood over the kitchen sink. The pipes groaned as the water flowed into the tub.

“It’s on the table, dear,” her mother said.

Serie’s arms pulled out her chair to sit down.

“Serie, your hair is a mess,” her mother called. “Lord Maître will not be impressed if you turn up to the palace looking like that.”

“Thank you, Mother. Breakfast looks wonderful. Could you please braid my hair? It’s getting rather long to do it myself.”

Her mother left the kitchen to fetch her brush. Serie’s hand reached for her spoon, her mouth ready for the first bite of porridge. She cringed as the spoonful of flavourless goop dripped on her tongue. Serie did not stray from her task as her mother’s footsteps returned to the kitchen. Her mother lifted Serie’s ebony waist-length hair into her hands, driving the boar bristles through the matted mass of hair.

“Your father was called to help with the harvest at Mr Hollow’s, so he’ll be gone for the next few days. It’s a bigger harvest this year,” her mother said. Her mother’s hand rested on Serie’s shoulder; the warmth of her touch was something that Serie always savoured.

“You’d best be getting to work, my dear,” she said, picking up Serie’s empty bowl.

“Have a lovely day, Mother.” Serie rose from her chair and walked out the door of the cottage. Her strings slipped through the timber as they carried her towards the day.

The wind swept up the hillside causing Serie to hurry towards the shelter of the woods. The grey aftermath of the evening storm still lingered in the air. She trudged through the path that led to Kalan, avoiding the puddles of mud as she walked.

The usual aroma of wildflowers was mixed with damp earth and hints of rain. The smell stirred her attention to the morning dew that clung to the petals of the wildflowers. Their colours of crimson and lilac had been awakened by the rain. She was mesmerised, her mind wanting her hand to reach out and touch the flowers. But her hand did not obey her commands. Instead, the incessant nudge from her strings brought her back to reality. She had defied her string’s bidding longer than she should have.

Her pace quickened as the strings dragged her along the path. Her heart yearned for a moment where she could be still and wander in the beauty of the world. But the strings had somewhere for her to be, things that she needed to do. There was no time to be fascinated with wildflowers.

The strings dragged her forward, but her eyes stayed glued to the flowers. She had only taken a few steps when her body jolted as she ran into something unexpected. Serie slipped in a mud puddle, splattering it all over her pristine clothes. As her hand wiped away the mud from her face, her gaze lifted from the ground to a pair of muddy leather boots. Her eyes met the smiling face of the man who stood between her and Kalan. His appearance intrigued her: he was slightly unkempt, his chestnut hair held back with a thin piece of cord, his clothes worn and ripped. His beard appeared to have been hastily trimmed. His dusky brown eyes filled with something she had never seen. His most defining feature was his complete lack of strings.

“Excuse me, sir, please may I get through? You’re in the way. I’m already late for work.” She scrambled to pull herself out of the mud. The stranger offered his assistance, but she refused. Her strings lifted her to a standing position. As she attempted to move forward, the stranger still blocked her path.

“I only wish to take a moment of your time, Serie.”

She froze, forcing her eyes to look at his face again.

“How. . . how do you know my name?” she stammered, ignoring the forceful tugs of the strings to remove her from the encounter.

The man’s lips parted to show his teeth. She followed the edges of his mouth as they curled towards his eyes. A fire danced in them, burning with a life she had never witnessed before. She was engrossed in the fire, letting it seep into her own frozen soul. For a moment, she had forgotten her fear of this stranger. Her intrigue far outweighed the pang of fear in her chest. Even the pull of her strings could not dampen her curiosity. Her mind snapped out of its trance when the stranger spoke.

“How long can you withstand the pull of your strings?” the man asked, his fingers hovering over the string on Serie’s left hand. Her eyes widened as his fingers wrapped around her wrist. A pulse of energy zapped through her. Within moments her strings dissolved into thin air. She watched her fingers curl up, the mark from the string red raw. A wave of pain crushed her body, forcing her wonder to disappear. The man caught her just before she fell. Her lungs begged for air and her mind attempted to fathom what was happening.

“Serie, it’s going to be alright. Just breathe. The strings don’t do that for you. I want to help you, but you have to trust me.”

Serie focused on the fire in his eyes again. With every new breath, her pain subsided.

“Why are you trying to kill me. . .sir?” Serie gasped. Her jaw cracked with every word she spoke.

“My name’s Tristian, and I’m not trying to kill you. I want to help you be free of your strings.”

She stayed silent, replaying Tristian’s words in her head.

“How can I be free of my strings? I’d die if I didn’t have them.”

“Do I look dead to you, Serie?” he said, showing her his hands that were free from the strings.

“How. . .?” she stuttered, unable to form the rest of her question.

“I can show you. Now let’s get you up on your feet,” Tristian said, lifting Serie to a seated position.

“This next bit is going to be a bit harder. I need you to push your feet into the ground as hard as you can, while I lift you up.”

Serie nodded, her feet stumbling to find the ground when Tristian started to lift her up. She found her footing, digging her heels into the dirt. She forced her back into the tree trunk, trying to find support to keep upright. Tristian held her body in its place. She focused on his eyes as they stood there in silence.

“I’m going to let go of you now, and the strings will come back,” Tristian said.

All Serie could muster was a whimper as Tristian’s hold loosened. She struggled to support the weight of her body. Her knees began to buckle under her; they had never carried it before. She gritted her teeth to hold back the cries of agony that wanted to escape. Her knees dropped as her body slid down the tree in jolted movements. Her cotton shirt failed to shield her back from the abrasive tree bark.

The strings’ return caught her by surprise as they pierced through her flesh and attached themselves to their captive ligaments. The pain ebbed away as Serie was forced to stand straight.

“What’s happening?” Serie asked, feeling an ache of panic in her chest.

“They won’t let you go that easily.”

“But if they were gone completely, I would be dead.”

“Maître told you that so you would fear freedom.”

“I’ve seen him de-string people, and they die.”

“It’s his cruel way to stop anyone rebelling against him. He is using the strings’ power to rip you apart.” Tristian’s expression fell. “If I left you here, without your strings, you would be dead, because you don’t know how to function without them. But you will though.”

Serie’s curiosity deepened at his words. Her thoughts were interrupted by the strings’ violent tug to take her to work.

“I must go, or Lord Maître will punish me.”

Tristian stepped aside, smiling as he gave her a short nod. “I will see you later, Serie.”

Her feet pelted down the path. She allowed herself one last look at Tristian before he disappeared around the bend.

Serie rushed through the cobblestone streets of Kalan. Her panic heightened as she became entwined with a group of children marching towards the school yard. It was inevitable that she would be late now.

She hurried through the hordes of people in the city streets as quickly as she could, occasionally having to stop to greet the people who said hello. The strings eased her pace at the palace gates. She stopped to remove the mud caked on her skirt; it crumbled to the ground, leaving blotchy stains on the pale blue fabric. She sighed. Her head bowed to the guards when she passed through the gate. She rushed up the stairs, stumbling through the service entrance.

“Miss Serie,” a voice echoed down the hall. “You are late.” She dropped to her knees as Maître approached.

“My deepest apologies, my Lord Maître,” she said, as the strings pulled her up to stand. Her head dropped as she attempted to avoid Maître’s icy stare.

“What happened to you? You’re a mess,” he said, pointing to the stains on her skirt.

Her jaw clenched as she pulled the truth away from her lips.

“I fell over, my lord,” she replied. It took everything she had to hold back a tremor of fear.

Maître approached her. She tried to relax. Maître stood inches from her. His enquiring stares rooted her to the spot, more than her strings did in that moment. She focused on her breathing, trying to keep it at its normal pace. Her eyes drifted to Maître’s grey hair, neatly combed over his bony skull. She avoided meeting his stare, in fear that it would give her away.

Maître pulled a wooden cross from around his neck. His bony fingers curled around the control bar. Serie’s body tensed reluctantly, as her strings came into Maître’s full control.

“Tardiness is unacceptable behaviour, Serie. That and your appearance give evidence that you have ignored the guidance of your strings. I will spare you. . .this time, but you must always submit to the guidance of the strings for your own safety. To ensure that you remember the next time you feel like being recklessly rebellious. . .”

Serie was fixed in her position. She felt her mouth clench tighter, imprisoning any sound she would make inside her. Maître raised the control bar higher. Her ligaments lifted into the air. Her strings dangled Serie inches from the ground. Her mouth refused to let out her screams, even as her flesh began to pull away from the bone. She could do nothing but endure pain worse than anything she could ever imagine.

Maître dropped the bar. Serie’s limp body crumpled to the floor. Her nose cracked as she fell face first on the wooden floorboards.

“Now clean this mess up and get to work,” Maître demanded, before he retreated to his study.

Serie waited until the footsteps faded. The pain in her body subsided as she stood up. Her hand moved itself to her nose to stop the blood.