Hell

By A. A. Ron

Tat Book One: Hell, is the story of Tatiana Stannek, a young girl living in the closing years of the nineteenth century. Suffering a strange malady which caused her to be born with her skin covered in intricate markings, she is exhibited as the 'Painted Girl' by her brutish father who runs a gypsy circus that travels around Eastern Europe. Beaten and abused, young Tat yearns only for the release of death to deliver her from the pain of living.

One night, she dreams of a god with the head of a falcon, this sets the stage for an intense confrontation between Tat and her father. Following a catastrophic incident, she awakens in a Polish hospital with no memory of how she came to be there. Here, she is afforded an all-too brief respite from her father's machinations. She is introduced to the wonders of Morphine and quickly develops a taste for its numbing and euphoric effects. Upon release she is reclaimed by her father and the pair set out on a journey to far-off London for nebulous purposes.

They travel to Danzig, a shipping port on the Baltic sea where they are met by an old friend. Here we begin to learn that everything isn't as simple as expected, and much more is at stake than previously thought. He provides Tat with insight as to the purpose of her markings and gives her a cryptic clue that points to the mystery surrounding her birth. With his help, they board a ship bound for London.

On the ship Tat suffers her lowest point and attempts to commit suicide by throwing herself into the sea. Inexplicably saved from certain doom, the authorities finally catch up with them in a climatic confrontation that leaves Tat unsure of the very nature of her existence.

Upon Arrival in London, an incident occurs that turns Tat's whole world upside down, leading her ultimately to a secret society, where some questions are answered, while many more are raised, leaving the reader questioning the entire narrative thus far. Events lead to an underground crypt, where many startling revelations are learned, sparking a mad dash to Oxford University and ultimate fates of all involved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098341367

Book preview

Symposium

Chapter One:

Tied to the Dream

Funny , she thought to herself, how one can never remember being born . Arguably the most important event in one’s life, lost to us. The blinding flash of light, first breath of new life, and the shattering of placental peace, cast off… forgotten.

She adjusted her pose to give the people another view of her nearly nude body, eliciting mutterings of amazement from the assembled throng. Feigning detachment, she surreptitiously eyed the crowd; mostly filthy peasants still stained from their labors afield, but near the back looked to be several wealthy landowners quietly conversing amongst themselves. The same crowd every night. Though the faces may be different, after awhile they all blurred into one another.

There are those who believe that we choose our lives before we are born. Select our bodies and dull trappings of personality and put them on like a mask to hide a divine spark within. If she had chosen this body, this mask, the reason was now well beyond her grasp, for up until now it had brought her naught but sorrow. During these times of public humiliation and shame her mind would wander, a half remembered snatch of a song, as if from a dream, becoming her mantra...

In the womb we are knit into the tapestry.

Memories wiped clean. Tied to the dream.

So the Lord can know what it’s like to be.

One particularly brave man reached out a tentative hand to touch her, only to be met with a fierce blow from her father’s stave.

No touch! Look!

The man retreated to the rear of the crowd like a whipped dog. Not many men would willingly confront her father. Standing over two meters, he towered over the lion’s share of humanity. Carrying himself at twenty five stone, with a bushy, black beard and cold, dark eyes, Yurgis Stannek was a monster… a nightmarish ogre from the grimmest of faery tales. It was clear he was becoming more agitated by the minute.

Show over now. GO!

The rabble slowly filed out of the patchwork tent, content to return to their daily toils in the fields; the endless drudgery of their pointless existence. They all thought her a freak, an unfortunate denizen of the shadowy realm on the far side of the dividing line that separates men from animals. In a bid to reassure themselves of their own tentative humanity, they surrendered good coin, or bartered what little they possessed of any value, for the chance to gawk at her, slack-jawed and ignorant. There had to be more to herself than that, or at least she hoped there must be.

The painted girl pulled on her old, threadbare robe while her father herded the stragglers out, wincing at a yelp of pain as one of the local children earned a sharp crack on the leg for his sluggishness. In an effort to avoid him, she made a half-hearted attempt to sneak away, but his booming voice pierced her back like an arrow, causing her to flinch involuntarily.

Tatiana!

Reluctantly, she turned to face him, Yes Papa?

You make good money today, I am proud.

Thank you Papa. Her voice, barely more than a whisper.

One man pay with this. Here, for you, into her outstretched hand he spilled a fine chain of silver, decorated with a cross. You wear tonight, yes?

Yes Papa. Dread filling her heart.

Then go to wagon and await my return. I have business to attend before evening meal.

Remaining silent, she bowed her head subserviently, thankful for this momentary reprieve. Stepping out of the tent into the waning light of late afternoon, the vast Russian steppe spread out before her in a panoramic view. As mud squished between her toes she silently cursed this place, despite its overwhelming beauty. The mud was an everywhere, ever-present nuisance on this trip. What had begun as the promise of a four month tour excruciatingly stretched out to the better part of a year as the roads became a churning miasma of muck. If not for her father’s prodigious strength they would probably still be stuck outside of Minsk.

Several performers from the troupe curtly nodded to her as she squelched along the path between the tents, but she paid them no heed. Yurgis strictly forbade her from associating with anyone they traveled with. Her one chance at socializing denied her. The beauty of real human contact, lost.

At the head of the column their ramshackle wagon stood against the sky, at once imposing, yet pitiful. It had been built with two storeys, and though that left it all the more treacherous in this swampy terrain, she was forever grateful because it afforded her a private room. A haven away from her brutish patriarch and the prying eyes of the masses. The aging pack horses that labored day after day drawing it were her only friends. Her favorite, Poto, nickered as she approached.

The old stallion, in the autumn of his life, remained unbroken, retaining a last measure of the strength and vitality that once marked him a king among horses. Though his once magnificent coat had faded to dirty off-white, and his mane had turned a stringy, mangy gray, his hooves were un-split, his eyes clear. She’d known him her whole life, ever since she could remember. It was on him she first learned to ride. In their younger days they’d even performed an acrobatic equestrian act together. Now those recollections of better times only served to depress her as she tightly hugged his sinewy neck.

Oh Poto, would that I were an animal like you. There is no malice in you, and though your life is constant labor you bear it all with good natured simplicity. While I am filled with hatred, sadness, and fear which I cannot escape, even in my labors.

As she gently stroked his muzzle, losing herself in those watery, black eyes, her own began welling with tears. This had become a regular occurrence in her life of late, tearfully confiding in a dumb animal who couldn’t possibly understand her. But, she had to confide in someone; had to relieve the crushing burden of her sadness, if only for a moment. He was the sole companion to which she could turn, silently listening without judgment.

Saying her goodbyes to Poto and his daughters, Rosa and Sera, she climbed the three wooden steps, worked the latch and entered. A wave of stale tobacco and sour sweat enveloped her, smells strongly associated with her father. He occupied the lower level of the wagon, the chamber of her torture. Holding her breath in a well practiced ritual, she hurriedly ascended the ladder on the wall, retreating to the paltry portion of the planet allotted solely to her…

The meanest part of her misery always seemed to melt away whenever she entered her room. In all the world it was only here that she felt even the slightest modicum of contentment. Walls lined with shelves, crowded with tiny treasures and keepsakes, reminders of her journeys and all that she’d seen. Capstones for the fragile structure that held her few happy memories.

Her hand absent-mindedly caressed the leather bindings of her books, recounting innumerable hours lost in their pages. The promise of even the briefest escape from this grievous life kept her returning to these same beloved stories, year after year, until they occupied the largest portion of her mind. Tales of trolls and giants, wizards and sorceresses, captive princesses and evil kings; knights in shining armor…

An illustrated picture postcard of the Crystal Palace, hawked for pennies at a country fair, framed by a peacock feather and an especially perfect pinecone. Empty bottles of various snake-oil remedies meticulously arranged among colorful agates gathered on the shores of the mediteranean. Tin soldiers and animal figurines standing watch over a belt buckle shaped like a falcon, perched upon a bear’s tooth nesting within a small pouch of rice thrown at the wedding of their pyromancer. Charms, totems, reminders that she’d ever lived at all; that there had been something before all this. Her intricate mechanical nightingale evoked bittersweet memories, while a minute silver box quietly contained the few pieces of jewelry she owned. Her father was forever giving her gifts to placate his conscience over the monstrous acts he performed on her…

Even here, her sanctuary, his scent intruded. Striking a match, she lit some incense to drive his stench from the room, then wound the key on the ornate Egyptian music box she loved so much. Its tinkling melody filled the room as she disrobed, going to stand before her greatest possession.

The full length mirror dominated the small space, it’s silver frame painstakingly wrought with roses and leaves. Her father had purchased it for her in Romania, and it was into its depths that she fell every chance she got. Gazing upon her body as she had so many times before, greedily taking it all in, once again struck anew by her unique beauty.

The cryptic runes which adorned nearly every inch of her…

Papa claimed she’d been born this way. With alien writing covering the entirety of her body. Eyelids, palms, even the soles of her feet, practically no part of her was free of this strange malady. She was not completely covered however, amidst the thousands of complex marks upon her skin, each a half centimeter square, there were thirty five blank spaces where her corpse-white flesh showed through. It was these gaps that puzzled her the most, were they the full stops between sentences? Or was she incomplete? The spaces intended for symbols that were missing?

With no answers apparent, the only thing left to fall back on was childish fantasy. Often imagining it to be an ancient, forgotten language which, if deciphered, would reveal the secrets of the Universe. Such were the foolish dreams of a naïve young girl. So far, no one had even been able to identify it, let alone translate it; furthermore, if it was indeed a form of writing it stood to reason that there would be repetition of characters, but each mark upon her was unique.

Stranger still were the vivid bursts of color that proceeded up the front of her at fixed intervals. These symbols were wholly unlike the small, tight script that decorated the rest of her body. They were much larger, possessing an altogether rounder shape. Each one bold black upon a field of a different color, contained within a perfectly circular border resembling a blooming flower.

There were seven in total, beginning in red at the crook where her skinny legs came together, just above her womanly parts. If she stretched out her thumb and forefinger she could walk her fingers up her body, touching each one in turn; her womb, stomach, heart, throat, forehead, and terminating on her crown in an intensely violet latticework of staring eyes. Thankfully, her long brown hair covered them, they always gave her a chill. Leaning closer to the mirror, she examined the one she couldn’t readily hide. A stylized number three resting within a deep blue burst on her forehead, between and slightly above her brow, which made her appear as if she had three eyes…

She turned to the side, sucking in her stomach then letting it relax, she was so thin, almost unhealthily so. Then she pushed up on her budding breasts and let them fall. Maybe two summers separated her from being a woman-grown, and she dreaded it, for the older she got, the worse his... attentions became. Yellow bruises bloomed beneath her markings, memories of recent beatings. Mostly he knew how to hit without leaving evidence, yet, even when he did, her body tended to hide it.

Many of the folk who witnessed her mistook her markings for tattoos, which was how she came by not only her nickname, Tat, but also her stage title, The Painted Girl. But she’d had them ever since she was a small child, barely old enough to notice them and realize that she was different. Never did they fade or distort, as normal tattoos would, instead growing in proportion with her body. Besides, not even Yurgis would stoop so low as to tattoo a baby. After years of doubt and wonder, she’d come to accept that she had indeed been born like this, and continually fantasized that her condition presaged an innate power that could one day free her from this wretched existence…

The smell of sandalwood and the last jangling notes of her music box brought her out of her reverie. Papa would be returning soon and she had to dress and prepare for dinner at once.

At one end of her room, just below the window facing out the rear of the wagon, was her clothing chest. Hand carved and quite beautiful, it once belonged to her mother, or so she’d been told. Looking upon it provoked the usual wave of melancholy; according to Yurgis, Mother died giving birth to her. No memory, not even a fragment, remained.

"Why did you have to die and leave me with him?" Tears came to her eyes then, as small sobs racked her slender frame. The well-oiled lock snapped open under her graceful fingers and she chose a simple, woolen dress which she pulled over her head. Then she selected a pair of shoes with little silver buckles and put them on. Again she stood before the mirror. Gathering her long hair back in a tail, she fastened the silver chain around her neck...

From below there came a commotion, signaling her father’s return.

TAT!!! He bellowed. He’d obviously been drinking.

Coming Papa. She called, mounting the ladder. The sickly caress of his greedy eyes upon her, a palpable sensation as she descended. As she reached the floor, one huge hand clasped around her neck, the other traveling up her leg, under the dress. Her air supply choked off, barely able to issue a pathetic plea. Please papa, not now... not when I have to face the others.

His face pressed close to her ear, breath reeking of vodka. After all I do for you, gifts I give, you think to deny me? Man who raised and protected? Spoiled child, I should leave you to wolves.

Though her heart soared at this empty threat, there was no hope of that. No escape, ever.

I’m sorry Papa, I am a spoiled child. I don’t deserve all this. Only, I beg you… please not now.

Yurgis loves his little Tat.

She shivered in disgust, I love you too Papa. In this state it was always best to debase herself and agree with him, for which she was rewarded. The pressure around her neck slackened and he removed his hand from under her skirt.

Very well, later you will pay, yes?

Alright, Papa.

With a lightning-fast motion he lashed out, striking her across the face with an open palm that felt hard as stone. Blood began to drip from her nose.

Then clean up and come to fire. With that he turned his back and stormed out the door, calling out terse orders to anyone foolish enough to get in his way.

She collapsed in a huddle. If there was a God, how could He allow this? Was there no mercy for a tortured, innocent soul in this world? Once again she contemplated taking her own life. Her poor wrists, shamefully bearing the jagged scars that betrayed her last unsuccessful attempt. The memory of the beating she received that day would stay with her forever, nothing could change that. Still, she would’ve committed the deed gladly tenfold if not for the one thought which gave her pause...

What if I end up in hell?

Lacking any first-hand information, only cryptic words heard spoken in hushed tones describing a place where sinners endure eternal torment in a lake of molten fire. Even if her sins were involuntary, forced upon her, it was said that all sin is equal in the eyes of the Lord. Further evidence of the boundless cruelty of the creator and the complete lack of justice extant in His accursed creation. She desired an end to suffering, not to trade it for the possible promise of burning for all eternity. Having no other choice, she grudgingly gathered herself up, wiped her nose, and stepped out the door to meet the troupe.

All eyes averted as she stepped into the firelight, though not before casting fleeting glimpses of sympathy. Despite traveling with these people for years, her shame and their fear of Yurgis kept an impenetrable barrier between her and the others. Though she suspected they all knew what was happening, none dared help her and risk jeopardizing not only their position within the group, but their very lives as well. She couldn’t blame them, but deep in her hardened heart, she did.

A goat, a gift from a local landowner, roasted on a spit over the great bonfire. Through the flames Yurgis appeared, loudly laughing and talking with those around him. To the side she could see Mikel tuning up his kobza. Nearby, as always, was Betha with her violin, and Ob with his drum and foot bells.

Mikel looked up from his instrument and their eyes locked for a brief moment before she turned away. He’d joined the troupe not two seasons past, and despite the two of them being nearly of an age, he was already an accomplished musician; however, being the youngest and newest member of their band, he was not always mindful of the insurmountable wall between them. Sometimes he would risk her father’s wrath and speak to her. She never replied, despite desperately wishing to. This made it awkward when they performed together, for he surely thought her icy and aloof, unattainable in her attitudes. While, in actuality, she thought him quite handsome, and his playing had helped her through many hard times. Lately she caught him glancing her way more and more. It could never be; Yurgis would kill him if he so much as touched her. Stealing another glance at him, both pleased and dismayed to find his eyes had never left her…

Tat come sit! Her father cried.

She drifted in a trance-like state to her place at his right. Wooden pallets laid over the mud, a cushion prepared for her. Once seated, a bottle of vodka thrust into her hands. Drinking deeply, she grimaced at the familiar burn. Alcohol was the one thing that made life slightly more bearable. More importantly, if she drank enough, she would not remember what he would do to her this night…

The music began and the drinking continued in earnest. Spirits raising, conversation deafening, culminating in the raucous, party-like atmosphere which accompanied all their nightly meals.

After about thirty minutes of increasingly drunken revelry, Yurgis clapped his mighty hands for silence and stood, addressing the troupe.

Comrades, we have reason to rejoice. Our tour of Russia is nearly ended, and well worth our while. Much gold and silver we have gained, yes? We have performed for every noble from here to Moscow, even Czar himself, earning much respect and honor. Yells of approval erupting from the back. We are now a day’s ride from Warsaw where we put on finest show yet. Comrades, SKOAL!

Amidst a chorus of shouts and hollering, everyone drank, including Tat. The edges of reality were becoming fuzzy, and for a moment she was able to forget how miserable she was. The band struck up a rousing tarantella.

A hand grazed her shoulder, startling her. Ulma, the pyromancer’s wife. She’d been with the troop a dozen years or more, beginning first as a follower, a hanger-on. In some miserable village, in some forgotten corner of the world, she’d thrown her lot in with them, convinced of a better life, or at least a more interesting one. Years of menial tasks had worn away her youthful patina, but in marriage she’d achieved a measure of respect. Now tasked with feeding their ever-growing family, as well as managing the sizable army of wives, paramours and hopefuls that saw to the less glamorous aspects of running a traveling show. She delivered a plate of roast goat with boiled potatoes and cabbage before scurrying back to the scullery...

Staring into the blaze as she began to eat, consuming the food as the flames consumed the wood. Perhaps our souls are like fires, burning alive, she mused, immolating our youth, devouring food to warm our bones. The vodka, like fire in her stomach, it’s liquid properties seeking to quench the terrible inferno that raged in her heart.

Once she finished her meal, she returned to the bottle, arching her back and tipping it straight up as the dregs gurgled down her throat. When at last Yurgis nudged her with his elbow, she was pleasantly drunk.

Tatiana, you dance for us, yes?

She nodded, secretly pleased by his request, only feeling at peace, truly herself, when she was dancing. Rising, a little wobbly at first, she took her place near the fire on a patch of dry ground. At the edge of her peripheral vision, Mikel, gazing intently at her.

The music started, launching her into a flare of practiced passion. All thoughts gone, people gone, just her, the music, the movement. Pure mechanical, mathematical grace. Her markings flashed in the burning light as the music flowed like a stream over the drumbeat as if over rocks in a riverbed.

She leapt and spun as the song neared its climax, rose and fell with it’s undulating waves. Euphoria gripping her, sweat beading on her brow. This was the feeling she sought, immersed in something distinctly separate from herself, abandoning her troubled mind to something deep, real and true.

Harnessing her momentum she folded her arms, going into a tight spin, skirt flaring out, the world around her blurring with motion. A new move she’d been working on secretly. A surprise she’d been saving for Warsaw, but couldn’t resist the temptation to reveal. Being more than a little drunk, after four revolutions she nearly stumbled. Kicking out of it in a swift recovery, she managed a halfway graceful leap as the song wound down. Ultimately coming to rest as the tune faded out.

For a moment everyone breathed hard through the silence, then as one burst into a fit of cheering and praise, none louder than her father. Tat returned to her place beside him, taking up a fresh bottle as the last light of sunset spread its colors across the darkling sky…

Chapter Two:

Awakening

She awakened to a dawn that was black and bruised, perfectly matching her mood. A hangover settled upon her brow like a crown. She heaved a heavy sigh and turned over, drawing the covers tighter around her, and sought to retreat into dreams. Rain pattered on the roof in a soothing wash of white noise. The caravan would be moving on today.

Already she could hear activity outside as tents collapsed and people went about the business of breaking camp. Small staccato bursts of chatter interspersed with her father’s baritone barks. Tat was glad she had no responsibilities to the actions taking place. This sense of disconnection carried her to the edge of sleep, but the cruel, gray morning light reflected in her mirror and shone upon her face. Most traveling days she never left the warm confines of her bed, suspended between lucid sleep and unconscious wake.

Slipping into the dream, slowly, silently; Yurgis stood beside her at the edge of a cliff, while thousands of meters below a wooded landscape stretched off into soft, inviting nothingness...

He pushed her over.

Down she fell, the ground rushing up to meet her.

Upon impact, her sleeping body jerked with a spasm. Upon her brow, a film of cold sweat, her stomach threatening to void its contents all over her bed. Hurriedly grabbing her chamber pot, she emptied her guts into it, the pungent smell of goat meat, vodka, and bile making her retch with redoubled effort. Eventually trickling down to dry heaves, fatigued muscles clenching in paroxysms of pain. A thin line of spittle stretched from her lower lip to the rim of the pot and she wiped it away in disgust.

Searching her memory of last night, everything after the dance was blank, empty space, lost time, familiar pains being the only betraying sign of what occured. A groan escaped her as she sat up, performing her morning ritual. Whipping her old quilt and sheets back, scanning for traces. Not really knowing what she was looking for, she methodically checked herself. All she knew was what she’d overheard, that when a woman was deflowered, she bled. Relief at the sight of clean bedclothes calmed her heart; he always disdained her womb, with it’s illustrated opening, preferring to violate her in… other ways.

He made no secret of his plans to auction off her maidenhead to the highest bidder, be it a marriage bond or otherwise. It was one of his favorite empty threats to throw in her face when she resisted him. That one day he would sell her to one who treated her far worse. That his greed was greater than his desire, she was eternally grateful. Though in her own eyes she may be ruined beyond any hope of salvation, her virginity remained intact, her last vestige of any form of goodness or purity in the eyes of others. If that was taken from her, what would be left to keep her from utter despair?

The wagon chose this moment to shudder and jolt into forward motion, exacerbating her nausea, tersely jostled from side to side. At least they were on their way. Another step forward in this grim death march; another day in this endless nightmare her life had become…

With no small difficulty, she staggered to the window where she dumped the chamber pot out; the satisfying slap as the vomit hit the mud, both substances remarkably close to the same consistency. Then she made her morning toilet which followed out the window. She hoped at least one of her fellow performers would accidently step in it. A petty, insignificant act of vengeance for their cowardice and neglect.

And the rain continued to fall.

Dropping onto her clothing chest, she settled her back against the wall, passively observing the countryside rolling past her open window. Endless fields where peasant families labored for their master’s gain, wasting entire generations tending vast tracts of potatoes and grain, no better than slaves. Toiling away lifetimes with no hope of anything better. And in the distance, towering over all, the Carpathian mountains loomed like the backbone of the world, bearing silent witness to the injustice of human civilization.

The cool, fresh air was a balm in her lungs, slowly pacifying the sickness that roiled in her guts, headache even beginning to abate somewhat. Drifting up from the column of wagons, faint songs and snatches of singing... traveling music. At this rate they would hopefully reach Warsaw by nightfall.

Abandoning herself to unwelcome intrusions of memory, images of the past few months of the tour drifted through her mind with pleasant, yet tainted, nostalgia. Especially their days in Moscow which, under different circumstances, could’ve been counted among the best days of her life. Springtime in that city was unrivaled in its splendor. The flowering trees, the exotic buildings, the wonderful people who treated her like a queen. The wealth of brothels meant that he had elsewhere to go to fulfill his sick desires, and the night they performed for Czar Nicholas was a night that would forever live in her heart.

The royal chamber orchestra had joined their little band and she’d danced to the finest music in all the world. Her spine still tingled when she thought of the ovation, the applause, the undivided attention of the unattainable ruling class. It was like a dream come true after all the years of parading her pearls before swine.

Truly they’d never put on a better show. Everyone outdid themselves; sword swallowers, mentalists, and acrobats alike, executing daring feats of unequaled dexterity and skill. Never one to be upstaged, Yurgis himself had wrestled and subdued a fully grown bear brought in from His Majesty’s menagerie.

Then, the moment all would remember. The one she could never forget. Strapped to the wooden wheel, limbs spread wide, as Yurgis exhibited his mastery of throwing knives. Not an act they performed often, rarely failing to leave the crowd breathless. He never missed, or at least she’d never seen any prior evidence to the contrary. Once, he hit a running deer in the eye at twenty meters…

Thunk!

Even the recollected echo of a knife burying itself in wood centimeters from her ear induced her body to jerk involuntarily. The ones near the head were the worst, and Yurgis always waited til she was upside down...

Thunk!

This time convulsing into a ball, drawing her knees up and hiding her face, quailing at the sound which haunted her nightmares…

He’d nicked her ear, but only just. The crowd gasped collectively, thrilling at the sight of blood, the spectacle of primal danger...

After the main show was over, all the aristocracy in the province came to admire her bodily miracle, a master tattooist claimed she was the greatest wonder he’d ever beheld. The Czar himself even expressed an interest in keeping Tat in his court, but Yurgis wouldn’t hear of it, breaking her heart and crushing her fragile spirit once again.

Tempered by a lifetime spent wandering faery tale castles and fantasy kingdoms, wistful images grew out of her imagination, depicting what it might’ve been like, living at the royal court. To attain what they take for granted, that which she most desired. Unfettered Existence in a wondrous reality of power and privilege, free from fear and constant threat of physical abuse.

I am unworthy of such a life…

Her hand strayed to her throat, surprised to discover the silver cross still about her neck. It swung between her breasts for she still hadn’t bothered to dress. Reaching behind, she undid the clasp, examining the man Jesus engraved on the tiny crucifix, head bowed in death. Though the religion that formed around him was largely a mystery, the suffering of Christ was known to her, often likened to her own suffering. Such a wellspring of strength he contained, was there such a well within herself?

In Yurgis’ mind God was a delusion maintained by those without sufficient personal power to take the reins of their destiny in their own hands. Choosing instead to place them in the care of a fictional creator, a jealous, angry father figure. In that respect, Yurgis was her god, an unassailable punisher who controlled her fate.

The feelings in her heart told her he must be wrong. The Universe was too far reaching and complex to be an accident. The clockwork paths of planets, the unsolvable riddle of existence. Sun and rain that gave rise to plants, plants that nourished animals, animals that fed and served humans; there had to be a plan. As a symphony needs a conductor, the Universe must need God.

Forsaking the unknowable, she delved further back, to a time before all this. When she was a child, Papa had been good to her, and she’d thrived upon the attention lavished upon her wherever she went. In those days she’d parade before the crowd stark naked in that shameless way of innocent children. Nothing to fear, for her giant father was there to protect her; always enough food and a warm place to sleep. Often she would climb into his bed on cold winter nights. He drank much less back then, and would tell her harrowing stories of growing up in London, and his adventures as a thief and treasure hunter.

As the years passed, things changed. The carefully laid architecture of her childhood fantasies toppled down around her as he began to drink progressively more and more. The beatings began, quickly escalating in violence and duration. Then, on the day of her first monthly blood, he took her...

Ever present at the forefront of her mind, the recollection of that day still inspired revulsion. Like a gangrenous wound that refuses to heal, growing more infected by the day, poisoning any new flesh that tries to grow in. Once finished, he broke down and cried, words burning into her mind as if spoken today.

Tatiana, you are abomination. Should have been killed on day you entered world. Now... I am accomplice to your corruption.

The words mystified her then, but infuriated her now.

Abomination. Corruption.

What had he meant? It was doubtful she’d ever discover the answer. Since that dark day, her life bitterly decayed into this endless procession of unbearable agony.

She shook off these worthless ruminations and checked the position of the sun. Still early morning, the caravan would not be stopping for lunch for five or six more hours, and the rain was starting to come down harder. Closing and bolting the shutter, she perused her bookshelf, beloved stories beckoning like old friends, settling on a treasured collection of Italian poetry. Though unable to understand Italian, she found joy in the words, making up her own meanings as she went along.

Was the writing upon her a poem? She wondered. An epic verse extolling the virtues of the Universe? Was she a living Odyssey? King Arthur’s lady of the lake? Come and see, a living, breathing being, decorated in the glory of fate. When she was idle her thoughts tended to rhyme. Maybe she could be a poetess herself one day.

The lumpy mattress creaked as she flopped on her bed, opening the book to a well worn, oft read page. L’Infinito by Giacomo Leopardi. She began to recite aloud, trying to emulate as best she could the smooth, flowing vernacular she recalled from her short stay in Rome, a lifetime ago.

"Sempre caro mi fu quest’ermo colle,

e questa siepe, che da tanta parte

dell’ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.

Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati

spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani

silenzi, e profondissima quïete

io nel pensier mi fingo; ove per poco

il cor non si spaura. E come il vento

odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello

infinito silenzio a questa voce

vo comparando; e mi sovvien l’eterno,

e le morte stagioni, e la presente

e viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa

immensità s’annega il pensier mio:

e il naufragar m’è dolce in questo