Chapter Eleven: Nature of the Beast
Within minutes of Dalthu leaving, Samson was back in the giant tub. Behind him, Dalthu's human mother, Rachelle, was humming a bright tune while scrubbing his back.
"We have a little bit of time," she said, taking a bowl of water and rinsing the suds off. "Not as much as I'd like, but don't worry, we'll get you ready."
Yes. I certainly wouldn't want to be late to any more of this nightmare.
As if she'd heard his thought, Rachelle spun Samson around. He averted his eyes from her nakedness as she continued to wash his front. From his hands, she worked her way up his arms to his chest. The scrub felt good. It wasn't gentle, but it was satisfying. As if she were purifying him before worship, this bear woman was scouring the sin from his flesh with her rough sponge.
Still humming, Dalthu's mother grabbed a stiff brush from the bath's stone ledge and went to work on Samson's nails. Samson snuck a glance down at her. The first thing he noticed was her eyelashes. They were long and dark, like a doe's. They made her deep-set eyes even more pronounced and gave her a tragic look that belied her fiery attitude. With her head bowed over his cuticles, Samson could see all the silver hairs that radiated from her crown like spider thread.
"How long have you been here?" Samson asked.
She dunked his hands into the water and, tossing aside the brush, picked up a wet cloth. "Nearly twenty-five years."
"That many?!"
"What a face," she laughed, grabbing his cheeks and squishing them together. "Yes, that many. What? Did you realize I'm old enough to be your grandmother?"
"T-that's . . . that's not what I meant . . . "
"Close your eyes."
Samson obeyed and Rachelle began to wash his face. The cloth gently massaged the delicate skin on his face. He felt the warm towel trace over his features, following the grooves around his nose and mouth.
"Dalthu said you were beautiful."
Samson twitched as the washcloth went over his eyelids. There was something about what she'd said that bothered him. Something niggling at the back of his mind.
What is it? Why does that sound so familiar?
Then it dawned on him.
"You're the second one to say that," he said slowly.
Rachelle chuckled. "Then it must be true," she teased.
"No," Samson opened his eyes to Rachelle staring curiously up at him. "I mean, when did Dalthu tell you this? We've only just arrived today."
Rachelle's brow furrowed, accentuating the fine lines around the corners of her eyes. "He told me after he saw you the first time, of course." Her tone made it sound like the answer was obvious, but for Samson, the mystery only deepened.
The first time?
"Move over to the steps so I can get your lower half."
Lost in thought and forgetting his nakedness, Samson waded over to the stone steps that led out of the pool. A sharp gasp from behind shattered his concentration. Dalthu's mother was staring at his back in horror.
Samson craned his neck back to look. Running up and down across his buttocks and legs, angry welts had bloomed where Baronk had caned him. He'd hit him so hard that several blood vessels had broken, and the ugly purple and crimson marks stood out against his pale skin.
"Did Dal—" Rachelle cleared her throat. "Did my son do that to you?"
"No, it was another one."
She muttered furiously under her breath. "Pushuruk! Such savagery—"
"What else can we expect?" Samson gave a harsh laugh. "They are orcs, after all."
Rachelle was silent for a moment, staring thoughtfully at Samson's wounds. Then she shook her head slightly, like she was knocking a thought to the side. "We are running out of time." Dalthu's mother set down the wash rag. "And I want to treat those wounds before we have to leave."
She guided Samson out of the tub and over toward a wooden table.
"Bend over a bit," she said, grabbing a small vial from the assorted bottles sitting there. Samson obeyed, placing his hands flat against the rough wood tabletop. He heard the pop of a cork being unstoppered and then felt a cool, soothing sensation spread over his skin.
"Orcs can be quick to anger," she said, dabbing the ointment on, "but also quick to laughter. Just like any race, there are bad ones."
The image of cold, gray eyes came unbidden to his mind.
"Twenty-five years . . ." Samson shuddered. "How did you stand it for so long?"
"You get used to it."
Samson snapped. He spun around and grabbed Rachelle by her wrists.
"We don't have to get used to it!" His exclamation made Rachelle flinch. Samson lowered his voice apologetically. "We can escape," he whispered. "Together. You probably know all the ins and outs of this place. We can finally go home."
"This is my home."
"No. To your real home. To your family."
"They are my family—"
"They are monsters!" he snarled. "Why? Why do you want to stay? Weren't you kidnapped as well? Weren't you raped?"
Rachelle went very still. "Yes. Yes I was."
"Then why—"
"But the monsters who did that to me were human."
Her words hit Samson like a slap to the face, but Rachelle's expression was calm.
What should I—no—what can I say?
"I—I'm sorry."
Rachelle shrugged. "It was a long time ago. I was ten. Well, almost ten. I remember it was a week before my birthday. I had asked my mother for a green silk ribbon for my hair." She put the vial of ointment aside and pulled absent-mindedly on a dark strand. "I told her that it would make the other girls cry with jealousy if I had a green silk ribbon tied in my hair."
Rachelle went deliberately through the bottles, searching for the right one. She picked up a red bottle, more delicately shaped than the rest.
"There was no warning before the attack. First there was nothing . . . and then there was smoke and fire and screams. My mother had me hugged so close to her body that I couldn't see. I could hear though. I heard my mother crying and begging for mercy. Mercy for her daughter. When her arms finally relaxed enough so that I could see, I saw that she'd relaxed because her throat had been cut. Even then, she was still trying to ask for mercy. But no noise came out, only blood. I could only watch as she mouthed the word over and over and over again, like a fish slowly suffocating. 'Mercy'."
Rachelle opened the bottle and the heady scent of orange blossoms filled the air. She poured the oil into her hands and spread it hypnotically between her palms.
Samson watched in a silent trance He tore his eyes away from her hands and tried to read her expression. If telling the story affected her, her face didn't show it. But . . .
Her eyes . . .
Rachelle's eyes, which had shone brightly even in the darkened room, now appeared dull, black, and cold. Just like the stones that lined the washing basin.
"After that the attackers sold me as a slave," her voice was steady as she rubbed the oil into his skin, "Told me I was worthless. Treated me like I was nothing. They used my body over and over until I couldn't feel anything. Until I was completely hollow. A doll. Just a lifeless doll positioned and moved wherever it was wanted."
Rachelle finished spreading the oil and stepped back. She pointed at the ground, a silent command. Samson obeyed and knelt down.
"Then one day the entire household was informed we needed to move." Rachelle pushed her fingers through Samson's hair, pulling his strands back into sections. "Our captors packed us all up and we traveled by caravan through the forests. A tiger ended up catching our scent and stalked us through the woods. Every morning we'd discover another person torn apart. Finally, when we were less than a day from our destination, the men in charge decided to leave a distraction for the beast so the rest of the party could travel the rest of the way in peace."
A shiver ran down Samson's spine.
"They broke my legs and left me." She gave a rueful laugh. "They needn't have gone to the trouble. I wouldn't have been able to run far as I was, anyway. When the tiger appeared, honestly, I was relieved. Relieved that it was finally going to end. But then the tiger ran right past me; bursting out of the bushes right behind it was Kilug."
"We both just sort of stared at each other. He says that he was struck by how beautiful I was," she laughed. "I can't imagine. I was dirty, matted, and half starved with more mange than a civet cat. But," she pushed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear with a delicate smile, "Kilug has never changed his story."
Rachelle moved to the other side of Samson's head, weaving more hair together.
"The tiger got lucky that day. Kilug abandoned the chase and walked right over to me." She shook her head. "I still didn't move. To me, it didn't matter. Tiger or orc. Orc or tiger. I had given up. Accepted that I was going to die. Imagine my shock when instead, he shook me by the shoulders. He said, 'You're alive, girl. You're alive' . . ." Rachelle's hands trembled. Her voice was hoarse when she began again. "When he said that, I felt the fire that had gone out so long ago rekindle. You see, he wasn't telling me that I was safe. He was trying to remind me. Remind me that I was still here. Still moving, breathing. Still worthy of being. There. All done."
Confused, Samson just stared blankly at Rachelle. Then . . .
OH.
He reached up and felt that she had braided his hair, joining both braids at the back of his head.
"Orcs can be brutal and cruel," Rachelle said, evenly. "But so can humans. No human ran to help me when I was being beaten or raped. Not one human thought to look back as they left me, a crippled sacrifice. You say that the orc culture is wicked and that may be. But don't try to tell me that the human world is better."
Samson was silent.
