“Where you think you going?” he ask.
First he think that she just running out to romp with the hogs, the only beast dirtier than she, but then he see the rope wrapped around her. Little piece of shit, he say and grab her by the hair. The pain make her scream but she don’t want to cry. She yelling and kicking and he shout back, Yes, yell and buck like an animal, as he look for the end of the rope to spin her like a gig. But then she kick him in the shin, a good kick, and he drop her. A fierce look he give her, without saying anything. Youngest brother drop his cutlass and pull the leather strap from his sarong to beat her. Smile so wide his face look slit in half. She grab one of the little things she is carrying and as he pounce on her like a cheetah, she squash it in his face, a little goat bladder filled with her piss from too many moons ago, mixed with the dust from ground stones that scratch when he try to wipe his eyes. He screaming, his eyes swelling shut. You blind me, he bawl, and he coughing from some of the fire piss in his mouth. She try to run again, but in the scrambling he grab the rope and pull. And pull and pull and she can feel herself rolling out yet getting dragged to him, and nothing is stopping it, digging her heels in the dirt, mud, chicken shit, and pig shit. Little dung, he screaming, I going take what I always take and then I kill you, he say. Don’t look for my brothers, none of them here to stop me. There. The fear stop. Brothers wouldn’t be coming to save her but to stop him. Like somebody seeing you about to step on a thorn and warn the thorn. He still blind and pulling the rope one arm length then another. She let him pull, and then she grab the cutlass. Not far now, I can feel it, he shout, and she really is not far. The rope pulling at her waist, dragging her, squeezing her, but she let both happen and now he is smelling hog shit on her. She take all her might to swing and chop.
“You cut me hand off! Little bitch! Little bitch!”
Youngest brother braying and wailing and cursing and looking for his hand. This little girl finally run. The rope dancing behind her, the hand of her brother still grabbing it.
And then there is more sun baking the skin and blinding the eye, and a trail wide for two chariots, and the numbness of feet walking too long. Running from shed to shed, path to path, bush to bush, and tree to tree until finally a forest to hide from her brothers, who would surely be looking, and asking others to look. Four days since shelter, more since food, and one more moon before she fall. The girl can feel sleep though she is not dreaming, and when awake she is moving, though her legs are still. The rope was so tight it was killing you like a snake, say a husky voice belonging to a woman bending over her. Where your mother be? she ask, and the girl shake over and over as if air slapped her out of a daze. One day more and the bounce of the cart cut her sleep. The woman ask, Where were you going, little girl, but the girl has no answer. No matter, the woman say. They are going to Kongor.
See the girl. The woman in the cart live in a house on a street where everything is blue. A house with two floors and two ladders, and with ten women also. Women with the bewitching koo, the men call them. The woman from the cart, who call herself Miss Azora, dub them her whores, for she was never one to hide behind pretty word. Why you bring another girl here, ask one of the women who in the seven days since the girl come never once put on clothes. Business steady but business slow, say Miss Azora, who look at her like she is herself wondering why she pick up extra cargo.
“A spot round here soon need filling.”
“I can’t work clay,” the girl say. The other girls laugh, but Miss Azora mouth something silent, like she is counting.
* * *
—
Year jump over year when she count the days with Miss Azora, but sometimes she wish they would jump back. Year jump over year and throw a curve into her sides and flesh on her bottom. Years crack her voice then smooth it new and sometimes she don’t know herself. Years make the same eye see the same thing but read it new. Read men new. Read Miss Azora new. No, read her for what she always was, and what she see a girl’s for. We is women together, but don’t call us sisters, one of them say. That first year two women leave, the year after, one come back. Three men die at the house, one while inside Dinti. Two of the men, other men come for, but the third man was a traveler they had to pay a merchant to burn. The young girl Miss Azora bring home have no name, but since she is the only girl among women they just call her Girl. Girl is who they send to the butcher for guts and trotters because he take pity and give her more. Girl depend on the kindness of some women, and stay away from the wickedness of others. Girl hide when a woman say hide and don’t come out, for certain man come with certain wish, and while Miss Azora love her children, she like money more. Girl play in the dirt, in the back room with a stick she call her sister until the day she wake and leave stick sister on the floor. Girl watching the whores be everything but a whore until night. Meanwhile Miss Azora watching her. Say she about Girl, You been growing through the years, but your face is too hard, like all you can see are people who wronged you, and your chin too sharp, your eyes too deep, nose too big, titty too small, legs too long, hands too crafty, and tongue too quick. Then she grab Girl and pull her shift over her head. She shudder, for in the years covering up in a house where women cover nothing, she learn shame. Let go of that shit, Miss Azora say while she inspect the girl. Shame is something you can neither buy nor sell. Your koo change also, she say, and tell Dinti to bring some rags.
“The moon soon come to you for what she want,” she say.
“And the men coming after that,” Dinti say and cackle.