Читать книгу The Stringless - Alisha Walkerden - Страница 8

The strings refused to relinquish their hold on Serie, no matter how hard she fought against them. Much to her chagrin, she was still their prisoner two weeks later. She sighed as Tristian climbed out her window, leaving her to her daily fight. She half-pulled herself out of bed when it was time to rise. She dressed herself, choosing to wear the red shirt instead of the green that the strings wanted. She chose the black skirt instead of the white, the black boots instead of the brown shoes. The strings could not have their say all the time, her will was too strong to let them win.

Her mother called from the kitchen, “Serie, breakfast is ready.”

Serie did not respond but went to the kitchen table and pulled out her chair.

“Good morning, Serie,” her father said, looking up from his breakfast.

“Good morning,” she answered.

Her mother placed her bowl of cold porridge on the table.

Serie frowned, wishing she could have something else to eat. She hated porridge.

“Are you excited, Serie?” her father asked. “This time next week, you will almost be married.”

“Of course, what girl wouldn’t be excited?” Serie lied. The thought had started to make her feel ill. She wanted to be free from her strings before she was trapped in Kalan without Tristian.

She had to admit to herself that she felt guilty about Flynn. Yes, he was a puppet, but he still seemed to hold some form of affection for her. She would be abandoning him on their wedding day.

Her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“She’ll be living in Kalan next week, the wife of a knight. Maître has honoured our family greatly.”

“That he has, Mother,” Serie answered automatically.

“We’ll be all alone, Henry,” her mother said with a sigh.

“We have each other, Annie. Besides, Silas and Serie have their own lives to live as the strings intend.”

“I am still allowed to miss my children,” Annie said, placing her hand on top of Serie’s

Serie attempted to maintain her nonchalant appearance. She turned away from her parents when she felt tears prickle in the corner of her eyes. When she left with Tristian, she would be leaving her family behind. They were a part of her. Even if they never said they loved her, she cared for them. Her brother’s humming, her father’s earthy smell after working in the fields all day and her mother’s hand touching her shoulder—she would miss it.

“We all must be getting off to work, we don’t want to be late,” Henry said.

The week passed by, and Serie was still attached to her strings. She didn’t know what was keeping her attached. Her determination to walk free had grown so exponentially that she could overcome the power of the strings for longer periods of time. Her own voice drowned out the whisper of the strings in her head. Serie had not given up hope that she would be free.

She lay on her bed, watching the shadows that the moonlight cast on the floor. The pinch of her skin signalled her hour of freedom. She sat up, just as Tristian climbed through her window. She pulled on her clothes and shoes in haste.

“Do you ever sleep, Serie?” he asked.

“Yes, I do. But I’m too excited. I’m going to run tonight.”

“Do you think you’re ready for that? I mean, it’s a hard thing to master.”

“I’ve been ready my whole life,” Serie said.

She stumbled out of the house in excitement, Tristian at her heels. She inhaled the warm night air, as her heart pounded in her chest. At first her legs refused to move. Tristian came alongside her.

“Running is like walking, but fast. I’ll show you.”

Tristian laughed as he ran off into the woods.

Serie braced herself and forced her legs to mimic Tristian’s. She fumbled along the path at first, until she started to gain momentum before tumbling to the ground.

“You can do it, Serie,” Tristian cheered.

She started again; with each new attempt, her pace quickened. The morning breeze whipped through her hair as she mastered a steady rhythm. She bounded over the hill as she raced Tristian down to the stream. She slipped and tumbled into the shallow water.

“Serie, are you okay?”

Serie pulled herself from the water, falling onto the bank as laughter escaped her mouth for the first time. A lightness filled her body as the laughter rang out. Tristian sat next to her as she caught her breath.

“That was incredible,” she breathed. Her eyes drawn to the flickers of sunrise waiting to emerge. She jumped up, running back up the hill.

“I don’t want to stop,” Serie laughed.

The more she ran, the harder it was to stop smiling. Her cheeks ached, but it didn’t deter her. Her body felt almost like it was floating, the heaviness that she had carried for so long had lifted from her chest.

Her breath ran ragged, forcing her to pause at the top of the hill. She watched as the sunlight flooded over the landscape. The pink and orange hues of sunrise halted her adrenaline. Her heart skipped a beat in awe of the beauty she had never seen before. She was still, listening to the birds calling the sun out. The scent of wildflowers drifted into her nostrils. The morning breeze was warm and welcoming. Every other morning, she would be back in bed, waiting for her strings to come. Her peace dissolved when Tristian bounded towards her.

“Serie, the strings,” he called.

The strings had started their descent. She raced towards the house. Her heart pounded in her chest, as she made it to the garden path. She reached for the door, leaving it open in her rush. She fell onto the bed and looked up to the ceiling, half-hoping that her strings would not come for her.

“Please, don’t,” she moaned as she watched her strings descend. The adrenaline that pumped through her body ebbed away as the strings fought for their control.

“No,” Serie cried, trying to pull out her strings.

“Serie, stop pulling at them, it isn’t going to do anything,” Tristian said.

“I don’t want these wretched things any more,” she cried.

Tristian reached out to touch her, but her body lurched away as she was dragged off the bed.

“Why did they come back?” Serie muttered as she pulled on a clean skirt that wasn’t caked in mud.

“There is still something you aren’t letting go of.”

“I don’t know what it is. Tristian, my wedding is today. I can’t leave Kalan after that. How am I going to do this without you?”

“Serie, you have been doing a lot of things for yourself, even waking up before the strings leave. I think you are stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

Tristian took a hold of Serie’s hand, causing the strings to disappear. He led her out to the woods.

“What are we going to do?” Serie asked.

“I don’t know, I can’t hold on to you forever. But remember that walking away from your strings means leaving behind everything that you have ever known. Is that something that you are truly ready for?”

Serie looked at Tristian, noting the sincerity in his face. She had struggled with the thought of leaving her parents behind. She knew that she would bring an unspoken shame to Flynn’s life, by leaving him alone. But she could no longer live a life dictated by the strings.

“How do you know when you are ready to let go?”

“You don’t. You just step out and go for it.”

The final rays of sunrise faded as the sun cast a warm glow over the woods. She knew she was ready to let go—so why couldn’t she walk away from her strings? They didn’t have the same hold on her that they used to.

“Let me go, Tristian.”

“Are you sure? The strings will come back.”

“But I won’t let them control me.”

Tristian let go and they both stood and watched as the strings attached themselves to Serie. She sighed, ignoring their incessant tug towards Kalan.

“I don’t know what it is that is keeping me here, but I promise that I will be free. You haven’t wasted your time,” Serie proclaimed.

“I will hide in the woods for a week. If I’m not here when you free yourself, take the other path,” Tristian said.

Serie nodded as she walked towards Kalan and watched Tristian disappear.

She stood on the outskirts of the city square. The final preparations for the wedding ceremony were in full swing. Garlands of flowers were being draped around the stage. She remembered when she stood in the crowd on her brother’s wedding day, watching each couple approach the stage for Maître to give his blessing. On that day, she was excited about when her time would come. Little did she know then that she would change her mind.

She sighed, walking towards the change room where the other girls had been preparing. Each girl sat at her small table, dabbing on face paint from the various jars in front of them. A rack of white dresses stood near the open window.

Serie sat at her table, avoiding the strange looks from the others in the room. Her lateness had not gone unnoticed. Her strings lagged, as if they were about to give up on her. She let the strings paint her face, outline her eyes with liquid charcoal, and dab golden brown dust on her eyelids to make her green eyes sparkle. She dipped a brush into another pot—a rich crimson red touched her lips. Her long black hair was in waves down her back, the subtle string still visible from the crown of her head.

The other girls around her seemed excited about the event that lay ahead. They didn’t stop in protest. They didn’t fight against what they were being compelled to do. She had the urge to call out again, but she didn’t have the courage to do it. Her fear was eating her insides.

She glanced from the corner of her eye to the girl next to her. Her arms moved to fix the stray blonde hairs escaping her bun. Her hands moved to the flowered wreath sitting on the table; it slipped through the string as if nothing was there.

Serie had known these girls since they were at school together, but she wouldn’t say that any of them would be considered her friend. Their purpose together was to learn about their strings and how they were meant to relinquish their own desires and submit to their ruling. There was to be no wanting of anything that wasn’t what the strings, or for that matter Maître, had wanted for them. They had learnt to read, to speak appropriately, to be perfect puppets in Maître’s play. Maître had no time for sloppiness.

She picked up her own crown of purple flowers. The sweet scent overpowering her at first. Her hands froze when it reached her head. The image of the deep purple petals sparked her memory of the wildflowers that scattered the path in the woods. The path that she would no longer walk down and dream about places she had never been. The urge to run swelled in her chest as she dropped the crown into place. She pulled the white lace dress from its hanger and pulled it up around her legs and torso. One of the girls zipped it up before the strings nudged her out the door along with the brides-to-be.

A warm summer breeze welcomed Serie when she stepped outside the change room. The low buzz of violins could be heard from the square. Serie’s mother and father approached.

“You look lovely, Serie,” her mother said, clasping her hand.

Serie nodded, hiding the mix of fear and apathy that overwhelmed her.

“You were gone before we woke up,” her father said, taking Serie’s other hand.

“I had to be here to prepare.”

They approached the square and the hum of the violins increased. The square was filled with the families of the paired, and Maître’s officials.

“I’m looking forward to meeting Flynn again, a knight in training. Maître has blessed our daughter with a wonderful match,” her father exclaimed.

Serie nodded with the excitement she expected she should be showing, though her mind was still on her strings.

Maître appeared on stage, dressed in a black suit and silk shirt, his grey hair oiled back.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for joining me for this joyous day.”

Serie held back a cynical laugh. They had no choice but to join Maître to witness the marriages of the citizens of Kalan.

“Today we have fifty young women and men who have been paired together to start a new stage in their life. Our mothers and fathers will give their children to their new partner. We shall start the formalities momentarily.”

Serie walked with her parents to the procession line, eyeing the stage where all the men stood with their parents. Her stomach dropped. The more she considered what was about to happen, the more she couldn’t go through with it. She didn’t want Maître to decide another part of her life. He had decided what her profession was, what she had learnt at school. He had decided that humanity should be controlled by his strings.

She sighed, attempting to subdue the colour flushed in her cheeks. The first couple met each other in front of Maître. The parents let go of their children so that they could join hands with their soon-to-be spouse. They all shared a weak smile together. Her stomach dropped lower; her uneasiness intensified as she walked closer to the stage. She was about to become Flynn’s wife, one day bear his children and raise them to submit to their strings just like she did. The moments of freedom she had experienced over the past few months would become a distant memory. She would look back and wonder what would have happened if she had escaped.

Serie watched as the couples before her pledged their lives to the other. The dread in her stomach grew as she moved closer to the front of the line. Her strings quivered. Her heart began to race. Maître stood in front of her: she was next. She would be bound to Flynn. She would never leave Kalan. She would never be a Stringless.

“Serie Aubrey and Flynn Canlin,” Maître called.

Serie’s parents nudged her forward. She resisted the jerk of her strings at first, before she was dragged forward. She felt her heart pound in her chest—her strings failed to stifle it. She halted as she found herself standing in the middle of the stage. Flynn took hold of her hand and smiled. Maître towered over them from his step and watched Serie intensely. She could not waiver under his gaze. Fear kept her fixed in her place.

Maître turned his gaze to Flynn. “Flynn, I present to you Serie. Do you take her as your wife?”

“I do,” Flynn said.

Serie bit the inside of her lip discreetly, so Maître could not see. There was a long pause before Maître turned to Serie. She felt his stares penetrate through her skull. His accusatory look suggested that he expected her to do something out of the ordinary.

“Serie, I present to you Flynn. Do you take him as your husband?”

Her jaw clenched; her mouth resisted the dull push of the strings to accept.

“Serie, do you accept?” Maître demanded.

She forced herself to look directly at Maître, pushing her fear of him aside. She would not let him control her any more.

“No, I do not,” Serie declared.

The square was silent.

“Are you disobeying orders? Do you dare defy your strings? Defy my bidding?”

Serie looked straight into Maître’s eyes, reciprocating his fury in hers.

“Answer me!”

The strings wanted to push her to the ground, they wanted to make her weak. She stayed strong and resisted their collapse.

“Defying the bidding of the strings will lead to death, Serie.”

“Kill me then.” Serie’s voice echoed around the silent crowd. “But I know that I can live a life without these strings.”

“My strings are the only thing that keeps you alive. Even if you could live without them, you don’t know how to survive,” Maître said. He stepped off his platform, standing directly in front Serie.

She could see his puppets watching with the same placid expressions as if none of this meant anything to them. The only movements came from his guards, who were edging closer to where she stood. Her strings forced her to the spot. Her eyes darted back to Maître. His hand slipped in his coat pocket producing his control bar. Her breath was forced from her lungs as his fingers curled around the wooden cross.

She had witnessed de-stringings countless times before. Never at a wedding, but there was a first time for everything. In that moment, she could feel pride swell inside her; she had stood up to Maître.

She waited for her skin to lift from its bones, her ligaments to be pulled in different directions. She prepared herself for the agonising pain that Maître would decide if she kept inside of her or let her screams ring in the ears of those watching.

“You ungrateful girl. How dare you destroy this happy day with your insolence?” Maître said.

His control bar took over her. She was forced to kneel at Maître’s feet. Her head bowed, so all she could see was his black polished shoes. The shoes she had spent ages polishing the day before. Though she knew her punishment was imminent, she had no fear. The strings had complete control of her body, and yet her mind had never been clearer. She didn’t raise her head when Maître spoke again.

“Never have I witnessed such behaviour at a wedding ceremony. A day that is full of joy and excitement. After everything I have done for you, Serie: I gave you a job in my palace, I matched you with one of my prized knights. And as I give you to him, you refuse.”

“I am not something that can be given away, Maître,” Serie said through gritted teeth. She felt the back of a staff hit her in the head, pushing her to the ground.

“Lord Maître, Serie. Where are your manners?”

The strings pulled her up again. She ignored the throbbing of the back of her head. She didn’t speak but focused all her energy against the control bar’s power. It was pushing its way into her mind and attempted to cover it in haze. It made her body rigid, but from the inside she was bursting with energy.

“I could tear you apart, Serie, and leave Flynn alone, without a wife of his very own. I could leave one of my best fighters to live in shame, for his wife was torn apart on their wedding day.”

Serie felt the strings lift her head to face Maître. Flynn stood next to him; his glassy eyes flecked with sorrow.

Her body throbbed with rage. She could feel the voice of the strings telling her to grovel for forgiveness.

“What does Tristian think he’s doing?”

Serie stared at Maître. How did he know that Tristian had caused the change in her behaviour?

Maître laughed, coming so close to Serie she could smell his breath.