BestsellerBound Short Story Anthology Volume 2 Page 5

"The eyes are windows to the soul." Blake's lips twitched in an ironic smile.

  "Our philosopher." Talbot lifted his tiny cup of Turkish coffee in the air.

  "Just what do you mean by that?" Jim asked, ignoring Talbot as he leaned farther over the tiny table.

  Blake shifted his gaze to Jim, an older man studying the folly of youth.

  Jim challenged him with his stare, daring him to answer, demanding treatment as an equal.

  "Merely something I heard in the bazaar today." Blake turned his bland blue stare to the sinuous dancer weaving magic in the sultry night.

  "Blake hears every last odd rumor spoken by the natives," Talbot said flippantly. "His real problem is he believes what they say. Been here too long, old chap." He pointed at Blake, who ignored him.

  Jim shot him an annoyed look. "What if you truly could see into someone's soul? Would you?" Jim's intense gaze drew Blake's eyes back to the table.

  "Lighten up, Jimmy boy." Talbot nudged the younger man with his elbow. "Have a drink." He poured more of the syrupy coffee into Jim's cup. "Heathens. No alcohol," he muttered with a sigh.

  Blake ignored Talbot as he searched Jim's boyish face. "Would you want to see the darkness lurking in your own soul, or have it bared for another?"

  "Nothing in my heart I'd be ashamed of." Jim thumped his chest with his fist.

  "You're certain of that?"

  Jim nodded, although a trickle of unease crept across his neck. It was as if Blake could almost read his mind, see his soul in the hot, heavily scented darkness.

  "Load of toff, if you ask me, which neither of you chaps are doing." Talbot finished off his coffee and surged to his feet, his knees popping as he stood. "Sitting on the floor drinking that rubbish is for the birds. I'm off to beddy-bye."

  Blake and Jim took little notice of Talbot's departure. The music throbbed around them, weaving a seductive spell, making magic possible in the deep violet night. The cloying smell of tropical blooms hung over the café. The dancer wove between tables, delicate scarves fluttering around her like the moths that swarmed the guttering candles.

  "Not everyone hides evil, Blake. There are innocents in this world."

  "Are there?" The ironic smile was back, Blake's blue eyes bland and unreadable.

  "What of children?" Jim pushed, defensive now for reasons he did not wish to explore. "Or her?" He pointed at the dancer. Her face appeared young through the thin veil, the eyes wide and innocent as a doe's. "She can't be much older than my sister. What dark secrets lurk in her soul? I say none." Jim sat back, chin out in stubborn challenge.

  "You would be surprised, I think," Blake said. "If you could look into her soul, would you take that chance?"

  "It's all hypothetical, anyway. There is no way to look into someone's soul. Eyes are windows. Hogwash."

  Blake merely smiled. One hand dipped into a pocket and produced a strangely worked pendant. It glittered slightly in the candle flame. Blake laid it on the table between them. "A charm from one of the wizards of the bazaar. It supposedly opens the windows of the eyes so that you can see into the soul."

  "Rubbish," Jim said, but weakly, a protest of habit. "The wizards are all fakes."

  "Then it won't hurt for you to try."

  Jim reached out then hesitated. The music pulsed through him, drums beating and voices wailing. Like a heart beating secretly in the darkness, he thought. Strange things had happened since he forsook the boring security of life at home for the intrigue of foreign adventures. Blake had been here much longer. Blake was a believer in the strange. They often ribbed him about it in the barracks. But now, here, under the spell of music and perfumed flowers, in the flickering candlelight, suddenly it seemed not so much rubbish. Magic was suddenly possible and not at all friendly. Jim's hand hovered over the charm.

  "Are you afraid?" Blake was gently mocking. "Maybe innocence is much more elusive than you think."

  Jim grabbed up the charm, his hand clutching tightly to squeeze away doubt. "There are more innocents than you believe, Blake."

  "Maybe, maybe not." Blake shook his head as if it didn't matter. "A word of caution. Once you have used the charm, you can never go back to who you were before."

  "Meaning what?"

  Blake shrugged. "The wizard who sold me the charm was quite the philosopher."

  Jim turned the charm over in his hand. It was cheap, made of tin and ornamented with badly polished river stones, nothing more than a tawdry pendant resembling an eye. Curls of writing writhed around the outer edge. The letters twitched in the flickering light.

  "Have you used it?" Jim asked, suddenly nervous. He wanted to drop it on the table, forget the whole conversation, but the thought of being mocked as a coward, afraid of charlatan wizardry, made him hold it tighter.

  "I've seen enough of souls already," Blake answered.

  "It's trash, utter nonsense, of course," Jim said, trying to sound brave.

  "Of course," Blake murmured.

  Jim looked up from the charm and found the dancer in front of him, kneeling gracefully at their table. The music took up a faster beat, a new performer wailing in the night air.

  "I'll prove it doesn't work." His hand shook ever so slightly as he held the charm to the candle on the table.

  "If you don't believe it will work, why are you afraid?" Blake's voice came from deeper darkness that masked his face as he leaned into the shadows of the night. His words took on eerie significance as they mingled with the throbbing wails of music. The flower perfume grew heavier, smothering the hot night air.

  "There are innocents, Blake," Jim answered stubbornly.

  Blake gave no further answer.

  Jim squeezed the charm, daring it silently to work, to open the eyes of the dancer, windows to her soul.

  The girl glanced up. Rings of kohl emphasized her soulful dark eyes.

  Jim squeezed the charm, staring into the girl's liquid gaze. He smiled ruefully.

  "It doesn't work, Blake."

  The throbbing music turned to a chant that swarmed into his ears like bees. The charm in his hand buzzed angrily against his skin. The dancer knelt motionless, wide eyes sucking him in, drinking his soul. And giving him her soul in return.

  He slipped into her mind, into her memories.

  She crouched in an alley, fear hammering in her chest and constricting her throat. She was young, barely beyond childhood. She clutched her shawl, remembering the men's eyes, possessive and hungry. She had only walked to the market to fetch bread for supper. Mama warned her not to go alone or after dark, but she had only gone for bread. The men waited in the bazaar, stripping her with their hard eyes. She felt unclean. Tears leaked down her cheeks. She had done nothing, but she would be blamed. She only hoped the men would not follow her home. She pulled her shawl over her head, remembering too late the code of modesty that dictated fashion. She scuttled down the darkened streets, the bread clutched to her breast as a shield.

  She sat in stunned silence. Her father had chosen a husband for her. She wanted to protest she was too young, that she loved another, but it would be a lie. She had been a woman for two years now, she was fourteen and old enough to marry the ancient friend of her father's. He was fat, smelled of stale sweat, nothing like her visions of a handsome young husband. She bit her lip, knowing to protest would only lead to beatings and charges of disobedience. She bowed her head, accepting her father's will. She had no other choice.

  She crouched in the corner, sobbing quietly. Her husband had gone to drink with his friends. She was safe for a few hours. She moved slowly, bones aching from the most recent beating. She had done nothing to deserve his rage. It did not matter. He beat her whenever the mood took him. He forced his way to her bed whenever he pleased. She was his property, to do with as he pleased. She flinched as fabric rubbed over raw welts. New tears of pain and misery tracked her cheeks.

  She cried out as pain rippled across her swollen belly. The new life within fought to free itself. She sobbed in fear as the cramps fade
d. She crawled through the straw of the stable, seeking comfort but finding none. The lone donkey blinked sleepily as it chewed its cud. She clawed her way up the half wall separating the donkey from the hay. Her fingers clutched wood as the pain came again, harder and stronger. She cried out, frightened and alone. She had no one to help, no one to soothe the pain tearing her in two. A flood of bloody fluid erupted from between her legs, staining her skirt. She sobbed in humiliation as the pain ebbed. She leaned on the railing, shoving sweat damp hair from her eyes. The pain struck again, stronger and deeper. She screamed as it tore her apart, again and again, until a limp infant lay on the straw between her feet. She crouched, tenderly wiping blood from the tiny face. The child, a male child, lay too still. No breath stirred his tiny lungs. She cradled his body and cried as blood pooled around her feet.

  She danced in the night, weaving fantasies for men who used her and discarded her to wait, forgotten, until another night and another dance and another man. She held her pain inside, never letting it show. She showed her strength, sinuous and supple, in every moment of every dance, in every instance of abuse and neglect. She danced for the future of daughters yet unborn, that perhaps they would not live in shame and fear, that her daughters would laugh in sunlight and know happiness.

  The spell broke. Blake slipped the dancer a coin.

  She pulled her veil over her eyes, melting into the night.

  Jim sat with tears running across his face, dripping unnoticed from his chin. The charm fell from his limp hand. Candlelight glittered over the magical runes.

  "One less innocent soul," Blake said quietly as he closed his hand over the charm.

  ***

  About The Author:

  Jaleta Clegg loves to build worlds with words. She writes science fiction, silly horror, and dabbles in other genres. Find more information at www.jaletac.com.

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  I Didn't Know His Name

  By Darcia Helle

  © Copyright May 2011 Darcia Helle